The Right Man
by Duchess Emma
Summary: In the margins of the text, a romance blossoms. Branson and Sybil's relationship from the Ripon incident through the Garden Party. Yes, it is very salacious.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own _Downton Abbey_ or any of its characters. Those rights belong to the BBC. If I did own the show it would be very risqué.

I love this couple. Maybe it's because I identify with Sibyl (we both are a rare breed of romantic feminists). Branson is also adorable with that lyrical Irish accent and his ideas about political reform. Forbidden love will make good fodder for series two.

My first fanfiction and the exorcism of this creative demon. Frankly, I was rather upset that Matthew received all of the credit for Sibyl's rescue. If I'm not mistaken, his show of masculine bravado set in motion her accident. He doesn't even carry her away from the crowd! I thought this would help explain how Sibyl gets the stars knocked out of her eyes about Matthew (she was also suffering from a head injury) and comes to defend Branson so vehemently. I have at least another chapter in mind…Enjoy!

The Right Man

"Lean on me" murmured Cousin Matthew as he placed his arm around Sibyl and led her from Crawley House's sitting room. Sibyl smiled up at him. He was such a nice man, her cousin. Sweet, kind, and handsome, not to mention heroic.

But as soon as his arm settled over her shoulder, his fingers softly pressing into her upper arm, Sibyl knew something was wrong. His arm should've felt good. It should've felt strong. Powerful. Safe. But in that moment she felt none of those things. His arm around her felt strange, brotherly even. Off somehow. Like she'd never felt it. Like it was the first time she'd ever felt his arm there. He had been the one to carry her away from the crowd, right?

Her mind was fuzzy, but her body knew the answer. It hadn't been him. Then who was it?

The last thing she remembered was the violent shove and the blinding pain as her head struck the table. From then until she woke up in Crawley House everything was hazy. But now bits and pieces of memory flooded back. Being cradled against a hard chest. Strong arms holding her. The presence of someone solid and comforting.. Someone gently laying her down on the leather seats of the car. The quick brush of fingers against her temple. Someone carrying her a second time.

She assumed that someone was Cousin Matthew. But his arm wasn't the same and his presence felt different. Sibyl's face scrunched with curiosity, aggravating her wound and making her wince.

"Are you alright?" asked Mr. Crawley, stopping in the hallway, his face concerned.

"Yes, I'm quite fine. Really." she said. They continued walking.

If he wasn't the one to carry her, then who did? Could it have been Branson…Tom? She couldn't prevent the immediate burst of happiness that coursed through her at the thought.

But needing verification she said, "I can't thank you enough for what you did today. I am sure it wasn't easy carry a senseless woman through a crowd like that. I'm certainly no pixie" she said, laughingly.

He chuckled. "Actually, Cousin Sibyl, while I'd like to take credit for the heroic rescue, it was Branson. He was the one who carried you away from the crowd and brought you inside. I was merely the …conductor."

"I see."she smiled secretly, " Well, thank you for protecting and conducting me,"she said, genuinely. He might not have done the heavy lifting, but his actions were still gallant.

Tom, Sibyl's mind raced, he was her real knight. It was his arms she remembered. His touch that she felt. His presence that comforted. She smiled to herself. Tom had carried her. Comforted her in her insensible state. The smile slipped from her face and her cheeks heated with shame And now he was in danger of being sacked-because of her. _This is all my fault_, she thought. Her zeal for politics and rebellion had blinded her to the real state of the Count. She should've listened to Tom, he was right, the crowd was spoiling for a fight. Her own injury was a testament to that. But it wasn't her injury that bothered her, but what it would symbolize for her father; Tom's incompetence.

Moseley opened the front door and the very object of her thoughts was pacing by the car. His eyes looked up and met hers. She felt a jolt at the connection, a current of electricity passing in the span of their gaze. Did he feel it? Had he been worried about her? Was he terribly angry with her? She read his concern, the fear, and something utterly indefinable in his gorgeous blue eyes.

"Alright, m'lady?"his voice, slightly hoarse, whispered across the darkness.

This was her true champion. How could she have ever thought it was anyone else?

And her champion was likely going to get fired. Shame made her quickly avert her eyes.

"Yes, Branson, I'm quite well."she said, avoiding his eyes.

Tom…Branson didn't deserve this. This wasn't his ideal job but it was his nonetheless. And because of her selfishness he might not have it anymore. Her heart tore at the thought of him gone. Since the moment he handed her the pamphlets on the vote, they had forged an unlikely friendship.

But over the past couple of months her feelings for Tom had become anything but friendly. She thought about him all the time (his ambitions, his voice, his beautiful eyes). Made up ridiculous errands just to be in his company. She found herself staring at him while he was driving. Hoping he would put his hand on her back to assist her into the car. She could never quite admit to the violence of her affections. She dismissed it as crush, something brief and fleeting. No matter that he was the only man she wanted to be around. No matter that he understood her better than anyone. No matter that she couldn't imagine a future or a Downton without him. The barrier between them (even if she didn't believe there was) kept them apart. He was still a chauffeur and she was still (reluctantly) the daughter of a peer-something they were both aware of. But seeing him now, remembering his actions from earlier, she could no longer deny the intensity of her feelings for him. _I love him_, she thought. Even in her shame for Tom's predicament, she felt relieved to think those forbidden words. To finally name the mishmash of feelings.

It seemed so unfair that just when she could acknowledge her feelings, it could all be gone. He could be gone, all because of her.

_Well_, she thought_, I will just have to make sure that doesn't happen. I will argue with Papa, defend Tom, and go to _any extreme_ to ensure he stays at Downton..and with me._

Cousin Matthew settled her into her seat as Branson held open the car door, his eyes straightforward. Mary quickly took her seat and they were off.

"Papa will be furious. You best prepare yourself, Sibyl." said Mary, appraisingly.

Glancing towards the front seat, Sibyl whispered vehemently, "I am prepared."

Finis

Please review!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own _Downton Abbey_ or any of its characters. Those rights belong to the ITV and Julian Fellowes. If I did own the show it would be very risqué.

Thank you everyone for the delightful reviews. I do actually like Sybil spelled Sibyl. Alas...

Chapter 2

"You'd best stay out of sight, Branson. I'm sure Lord Granthem will send for you if the need be. I'll walk home tonight"

It had been two long hours since Mr. Crawley had uttered those words. Two long hours of waiting for any word from the house, either Lord Granthem's summons or news of Sybil's injury.

After the first hour of pacing, Tom had removed his coat, tie, and vest. He unbuttoned the top couple of buttons and tried not to think of Sybil. After a second hour of pacing, he had decided to pack. It seemed there was little point in denying the inevitable. He was likely sacked.

Pulling out his battered suitcase from under the bed, Tom started piling clothes, books, and other necessities in. The hour was late but he wanted to be prepared to leave tomorrow.

A sharp knock came at the door and he moved to answer it with little thought for his attire. William was the only one who was ever sent to fetch him and the lad had seen him in much worse. Mr Carson had very strict rules about what was appropriate and housemaids anywhere near a bachelor's residence was improper.

Was this finally news of Sybil or was this a dreaded audience with his lordship? Sighing, he opened the door.

But the person there wasn't William. She wasn't William at all. Shocked, he said "Lady Sybil, what are you doing here?"

"Quick, let me in. It might be summer but it's freezing out here."she said, teeth chattering. He ushered her into the cottage and steered her toward the only chair. The light from the nearest lamp (His lordship had installed electricity here as well) illuminated Lady Sybil or rather illuminated what little she wore. Wrapped in a silk robe with unbound hair, she looked like she had just come from bed. Tom swore he even saw the ruffle of her nightgown at the v in the robe's neck. It wasn't that her nightclothes were seductive. She revealed much the same amount of skin during the day. It was the intimacy. Lady Sybil was sitting in his private quarter in clothing only her maid and her mother usually saw (and eventually her husband). It was a seductive thought.

Unsettled by the erotic turn of the interview, Tom backed away from her to lean against the wall. He asked "What would make you come here in the middle of the night? You've just had a serious accident, milady. You should be resting in bed, not traipsing about the estate" he said, suddenly angry. What had she been thinking? What if she had fainted on her way here? While the chauffeur's cottage wasn't that far from the main house, it wasn't close either.

"I had to see you." she said, her eyes meeting his for the first time. Her eyes widened a bit, as she surveyed him, taking in his untucked shirt and the loosened buttons at his neck. He imagined he had a similar look moments before. "Is this a..a..er.. bad time?" she asked, a soft blush lit her cheeks.

"Well, umm, no" he said, fixing the buttons at his neck "I was just packing."

"Packing? Why? Has my father fired you?" she shot up quickly from her chair, "Oh, he will rue the day he challenged me". Swaying slightly, she put her hand to her head.

Branson moved with lightening speed, his arm around her back. "Sit down, milady. My God, you'll re-injury yourself."

"Sybil, call me Sybil. And my father will regr-"she said.

"He hasn't fired me yet. But he will"

After making sure she was seated, he knelt, his hand tilting her head and his fingertips brushing gently against the side of her face. She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes widening at the contact. God, her skin was soft. And warm, his fingers felt singed with that brief touch. He couldn't stop touching her. He had been so incredibly worried about her. Lady Mary had told him it wasn't serious and he had seen Sybil walk into the house himself, but damn if he couldn't get the image of her pale and bloodied face out of his mind. He needed to know that she was alright and then here she was right in front of him. Overwrought, but fine. He felt calm for the first time in hours. She was alright. She would be fine, he repeated to himself. Still unable to stop touching her, his hands slid down to rest on the upper part of her arms. He realized that he was taking unnessary liberties and quickly, jerked his hands. Moving to his original position against the wall, he stared at her.

"I know" she said, suddenly.

"You know what?"he said, a confused frown on his brow.

"I know it was you who carried me from the crowd. I know it was you who rescued me."

"Well, I won't deny that I did carry you, but rescue seems too grand a word for it."

"Yes, but you did more than that. You touched me, like you just did. You comforted me."

"It was nothing," he said, shifting his feet, uncomfortable with the conversation.

"It wasn't to me"

He didn't have an answer for that. Seeing his silence, she looked around the small cottage taking in the details of his home. Not unlike the servants' quarters in the main house, the cottage was sparely furnished. It had a bed, a wardrobe, and a table with one chair. There was a fireplace and a stove, but nothing else. Her eyes rested on the bed and the open suitcase

This time she slowly rose from the chair and made her way over to the open bag, "You really needn't pack. You won't be fired. I've made sure of that." She picked up a couple of items from his suitcase and moved to put them away in the wardrobe.

"How? I'm sure your father was livid and rightfully so."

"Well, there's nothing to fear, I took the blame as was so. You might get a severe talking to, but your position is safe"

"There's no need for you to do that, mil-Sybil"he said, referring to her unpacking.

"I don't mind. It's the least I can do after today"

He wanted to argue, but her task was such an intimate one. Too intimate actually. Did she not realize how…sensual and wifely it was? Tom could think of little else. Her hands on his clothes, his books… she might as well be touching him. And did she not realize how close she was to his bed? Images rose unbridled to his mind. Lips and bodies pressed together. The feel of her soft weight under him. Her legs wrapped…My God, she was driving him mad! The small cottage felt even smaller with her presence.

Trying to keep his mind on track, he said "A severe talking to? That's it? How did you manage that? I doubt your father was satisfied just because you took the blame."

He couldn't see her face as her back was facing, but he heard her say "I might've said that if you were gone that I would run away."

"You what?" he walked over to her, grabbing her hand and turning her toward him. "I thought after today you were a passionate, even coming here was a little overzealous, but running away? Are you mad? Don't even threaten something like that. A lady like you runaway over a servant? It's sheer lunacy."

Her aristocratic chin shot up and she whispered, "I would. I will if you're fired."

Their eyes met and he knew she meant every word. The tension in the room intensified Tom took in her beauty-her luminous skin, her luscious dark hair, and those soft blue eyes. And those lips, my God, her lips. They were supple and lush with a softened shape of Cupid's bow. The dark pink reminded him of Mr. Moseley's prized roses. _Soft, they looked soft_, he thought. As if in a trance his head started to lean closer. Her lips parted on a sigh and her eyelids fluttered shut.

_Just one kiss. It couldn't hurt, right? _he thought. _Yes, _the rational part of his brain screamed, _yes, it would change everything. It would make you crave her more. Crave what you could never have._

His head jerked back forcefully, his hand snatched from hers. Turning away from the temptation of her sweet lips, he muttered, "This isn't a good idea, milady. You shouldn't be here."

She came up behind him, placed her hand on his rigid shoulder. His whole body stiffened at her tender touch, but it was her next words which seized him with surprise "I…I..I love you."

It was the last straw. How could a man resist such a tenderly spoken declaration? He wasn't made of ice and if he had been, those words would've melted him into a bloody puddle. Turning around and taking her face in his hands, Tom placed his lips against hers.

He thought he would feel relief. To finally kiss the woman who haunted his days and invaded his nights (literally), he thought relief was the appropriate emotion. He even anticipated lust. But while those feelings were present, it was nothing to the intense wave of perfection and rightness that came in that moment. It was as if sealing their lips sealed their destiny. They both gasped at the sharp fusion of their lips.

He gently nudged his lips against her, feeling the softness and fullness slide against his. She responded in turn, brushing his lips with hers, pressing her lips eagerly upwards.

Somehow his hands found their way into her hair, his fingers curling into the heaviness, his thumbs caressing her neck. His lips parted and took her pillowy bottom lip gently between his teeth, nibbling slowly. She moaned low in her throat and pressed herself closer to him.

Darting his tongue out, he flicked it against the seam of her lips and she opened her mouth. His tongue cautiously entered and then retreated. She responded with another moan and by opening her mouth further. He couldn't stop himself from delving in, tangling his tongue with hers.

He had never been this hot before. It wasn't as if he'd never kissed a woman before. He had. Many times (local lasses in Ireland, housemaids at his former employers) in fact. But this kiss was different. The sensations she created with her eager response were driving him wild. Her mouth was sweet and warm. She tasted like cinnamon and sensuality. It was a combination so unique and bold he could taste it for the rest of his life and never grow bored. He couldn't get enough of her. His hands tilted her head to the side with one thought: get closer.

As if sensing his thoughts, Sybil brought her body flush against his, wrapping her arms around his neck and tracing his mouth with her sweet tongue. It was his turn to groan. Their bodies were plastered together, her soft breasts against his chest, their hips meshed together.

This was the potent and powerful moment of his life; Tom didn't want to stop. He wanted to slide his hands down her back, to pull her hips even closer. To kiss the fragile skin of her neck, her collarbones, the swells of her breasts…but this was madness. It had to stop. It was late. She was a lady and they were snogging in the privacy of his residence. Too many …erotic things could happen. With too many consequences.

Hands on her shoulders, he pushed her away. Their uneven breaths the only sound in the small cottage. One look at her mussed hair and her red lips was nearly enough to make Tom continue their kiss. Nearly.

"I need to take you home" he said, breaking the silence.

"I meant what I said, Tom. I love you,"she said, forcefully. Her eyes full of the same passion he saw at the Count. The soft blue eyes dared him to deny her words, to deny the truth evident on her face. But he couldn't. He wished that her declaration hadn't made him so happy. Hearing those words spill so sweetly from her lips, the feeling was…indescribable. Like all the happy moments of his entire life were gloomy and dark compared to Sybil Crawley's profession of love. And damned if he didn't feel the same way. He loved her vivacity. Her pert nose. The way she was both sweet and fierce. He loved her openness, her boldness, her idealism. He longed to say the words back, if only to see her the dazzling beauty of her smile. But he couldn't say the words. He knew her love wouldn't last and maybe it was his damn Irish pride, but he didn't want to leave himself vulnerable when she realized this was a mistake. But his mouth wouldn't listen. It took all of his mental strength not to form the words that would make her happy.

Instead he forced out, "I know you do, lass. But you'll forget about me soon enough. You're off to London in a couple of weeks for your Season. Balls, dancing, socializing with people of your rank. You'll want to forget what you said and _did_ here," he said.

He wanted to believe she wouldn't. That this moment and their kiss had imprinted itself onto her brain like it had his. But Tom Branson was anything but a fool. He was an idealist, but he lived in cruel, harsh reality. The reality where a Lady didn't stay in love with a chauffeur.

Grabbing his coat, he threw it around Sybil's shoulders and they went out into the night. He insisted that they walk slowly because of her injury, but really he didn't want to part with her. Tonight was one of the best and the worst nights of his life. The sweet agony of her declaration brought up too many feelings and repressed dreams. They didn't speak, but walked in comfortable silence, his arm around her shoulder much as Matthew's had been before.

Reaching the servants' entrance, she turned and spoke the words which were bound to break his heart, "I won't forget."

He smiled, a soft bittersweet smile, and said "Ah, my dear, you will."

FINIS

Please review! I'm not sure if I want to take this story through the London Season. Let me know what you think…


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own _Downton Abbey _or any of its characters.

Thank you for the reviews! They really kept me going on this story. I am glad that everyone enjoyed the kiss in Chapter 2. It was exceptionally fun to write. Frankly, during the writing process I thought I might need some smelling salts... or a cold shower.

Chapter 3

During her two weeks in London Sybil had done all of the things Tom promised she would.. She had danced, she had socialized with men of her rank, and she had attended balls, the theatre, and dinner parties. But in one respect, Tom was mistaken; London and the Season weren't enough to make her forget him or her love. In fact, she thought of little else.

Alone in her room at Granthem Terrace, Sybil had eluded a dinner party by feigning a headache. The truth was she longed to be alone. All of the ceremony, the constant stream of social events, and the bustling crowds of London were too much. For one night it was nice not to entertain to be entertained-not to pretend interest in some dowager countess' new dress or deter the flirtations of a young lord. London was lovely, but she longed for the quiet country life of Downton. And for the company of a certain someone.

She couldn't stop thinking about that kiss. It had been magical and passionate and all of the other maxims she had heard about moments like that. Like Romeo kissing Juliet. Or Lancelot and Guinevere. Epic. And his lips, oh God, his lips. They were strong and gentle at the same time. The teasing and brushing of them had been overwhelming. No wonder she needed to get closer. She never knew that a man's body could be so warm and solid. The fuzzy memories from her accident didn't do him justice. His chest was so hard and strong, the lack of layers between them had excited her further.

She still couldn't believe that she had told him she loved him. It wasn't that she didn't feel that way, she did, too intensely. It's just that she hadn't thought she would have the courage to say it out loud and so soon after discovering it. But in that moment when he had sharply turned away after the near promise of his lips on hers, she knew that she had to let it out. He was so..gentlemanly (much more gentlemanly than some of the men who deigned to get her away from her parents and out on the balcony to "chat") and so controlled when she stood there breathless with anticipation. But then his lips, their bodies together…it had been nothing short of amazing. Even now, weeks later and two hundred miles away, she shivered at the visceral memories.

They had not been alone since that night in the chauffeur's cottage. There was so much to do in the weeks leading up to the Season that she couldn't get away. But the biggest hindrance had been her father. After Ripon he had decreed that Sybil was not allowed near Branson unless she was with a family member. Apparently he thought that if they were alone together they might start a riot, set fire to Downton Village, or God forbid talk about politics. Her usual excuses for a drive were no longer valid and she had to ride with her mother, Edith, or Mary to finish errands before London.

Branson for his part digressed into maddening distance. He showed her the same level of civility as he did toward her mother and sisters. As if they hadn't kissed, as if she wasn't hopeless in love with him. It was exasperating and more than a little hurtful. She hoped he would show some sign that things had changed between them. A longing glance. A flirtatious smile. A lingering touch. But nothing. He seemed determine to forget her before she might forget him.

It was only when he took the family to the train station that June morning that he showed a crack in the veneer. Her family had already alighted from the car; her father gave a curt nod to Branson before moving toward the platform. (He still wasn't over the Ripon incident). Sybil had been the last to ascend, hoping that Tom would say something, anything before she was gone.

Rather than place his hand at her back, he grabbed her hand to help her down. Turning toward him, Sybil's eyes finally met his for the first time in weeks. His intense blue eyes looked…hungry, much as they had that night in his cottage. But there was something else- sadness, anguish, and even resignation.

Slowly lowering and releasing her hand, he whispered, "Goodbye, my lady. I hope that London and your Season are everything you want them to be."

"They won't be. Nothing could possibly compare to Downton, there are far too many claims upon my happiness here. Goodbye, Tom." And with those parting words, she walked towards her family. He thought she would forget him, forget her declaration, their kiss. But he couldn't be more wrong.

Sighing dramatically, Sybil shook off the memories and moved to her writing table. She had resisted this long (God knows how) out of fear. Fear that he was right, that London would change her and make her forget. She knew she was young, even somewhat impressionable, but her feelings were solid. Her love for Tom Branson was as essential to her as breathing. However, she was afraid of his feelings. Sybil knew he felt something, men didn't kiss women like that without feeling something. But what exactly he felt, that was another story. She spent nights tossing and turning, examining his feelings. Maybe it was lust…but it hadn't felt like lust. Their kiss had been full of passion and intensity, but it was also pure and wonderful. Still being the only one open about her feelings was…difficult to say the least. She didn't expect a return declaration, but some hint that he felt somewhat the same. His actions might speak loudly (his rescue, the kiss), but his words continuously deterred.

Well, that was it. She could not stop herself writing to him. Two weeks was long enough for her to realize how much she missed him. How important he was to her. How his opinion and his presence was the only thing that would make her happy. She loved him and she'd be damned if she didn't do something about it.

Taking a pen and paper from the drawer, Sybil composed a letter to the man she loved.

The next morning at breakfast she gave the letter to Mr. Carson to post.

"Ah, my lady, a letter for one of the staff at Downton?" he asked, quizzically.

"Yes, I wanted to update Gwen on some recent developments in secretarial work," she answered back coolly.

"I'll see that it gets sent today then," he said, slight disapproval in his voice.

Sybil smiled into her breakfast. She nearly giggled as she imagined his reaction if he knew the real contents of the letter.

FINIS

Please review!


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own _Downton Abbey_ or any of its characters.

Thanks to everyone for the reviews and support. I hope you enjoy reading Sybil's letter.

Chapter 4

It was lunchtime at Downton Abbey and the delightful smells of Mrs. Patmore's kitchen beckoned more than one of the hungry staff. The family might be away and a few faces absent from the staff, but nearly everyone was busy with tasks only done when the family was away. The lunch was a blessed break from the humdrum of cleaning, cooking, and working. Branson, who had long been accustomed to the temperamental cook's delicious cuisine, was early and reading the newspaper in his usual spot. Unlike the rest of the staff, he had fewer tasks to do while the family was away. He would tinker with the cars and drive the other Crawleys and Lady Violet around, but there were many long hours of nothing.

Freedom should've been a blessing; it meant he had more time for leisure and with Lord Grantham's library, more books to read during it. But free time had become a curse of late and Tom knew exactly why-Sybil and that blasted kiss. Almost five weeks had passed and there wasn't an hour that went by without his mind replaying and embellishing it. Her lips had been so soft and her eager response had nearly unmanned him. It seemed he more alone time he had, the more erotic his thoughts. He often imagined her soft white hands on his chest, his abdomen. What his hands could do to the curves of her body. But it went beyond physical attraction (although there was a good deal of that). He often thought about what she was doing at that moment, what she would say about some newspaper article or another. However, his thoughts often drifted into melancholy, imagining other men kissing her hand at balls or taking her for long strolls in the park. The isolation of his cottage merely exacerbated the longings and the depressing thoughts. So staff lunches became a welcome reprieve from his anguished reflections, not to mention his heated thoughts.

Slowly the staff filtered into the kitchen, sweaty, dusty, and hungry. Tom exchanged pleasantries with William, Anna, and Gwen, their friendship easy and jovial. Poor William was slightly withdrawn due to the recent passing of his mother. Tom cracked a couple of jokes and the women laughed. William offered a sad smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. It seemed unlikely the young footman would laugh anytime soon.

They ate lunch; steaming bowls of soup with thick slices of crusty bread. Tom complimented Mrs. Patmore several times. _She could give my ma a run for her money_, he thought.

Mrs. Hughes, always the last to arrive, bustled in with a stack of letters and took her seat at the head of the table. With Mr. Carson gone she took her meals with the rest of the staff. While she didn't chitchat in the same good-humored way the other staff did, she was still a pleasant presence.

She began to hand out letters to the staff, "Anna, William, and Thomas, here you are" She frowned slightly then said, "and Gwen, there's one for you. It seems to be from London, from Lady Sybil".

Tom's eyebrows shot up as he (along with the rest of the staff) turned to stare at Gwen. _She had a letter from Sybil?_ he thought. _What would Sybil have to send her?_

The redhead blushed slightly and mumbled, "It's probably just some pamphlets on typing or something."

It was likely true. Sybil, even in during her London Season, wasn't apt to stop helping Gwen achieve her goals. As the letter was passed to Gwen, Tom couldn't prevent the slight burst of jealousy.

It wasn't that he was mad at Gwen. She, like him, was one of Sybil's favorites. In fact, he actually admired Sybil for keeping her promise to Gwen. The problem with the letter was that it wasn't for him. He knew she would forget about him, had even predicted that she would, but the letter was physical, tangible proof that she had. Here she was sending letters to Gwen, fulfilling her promise and yet she seemed already to deny him the promise of her love. No matter that he had told her to forget.

He knew his thinking was irrational, but damn if Sybil didn't make him crazy. He felt her absence from Downton every day. The place was darker, gloomier, and emotionless without her. He longed for news of her. Even a brief note with the beaus she danced with and the men who were courting her was something. But he had nothing. He, as was fitting of a chauffer, was forgotten.

Tom quickly finished his lunch and left the table glummer than he had been in days. It shouldn't matter that she had written to Gwen. But it did. He might spend hours since her departure, thinking she might still care about him, that her declaration had meant something, foolishly hoping her love was true. But the truth was she had forgotten all about him in the excitement of the Season. _Good thing I didn't return her declaration. It would've been nothing but a shame to us both now, _he thought.

Walking back to the chauffeur's cottage, gravel crunching under his boots, Tom knew he needed a distraction. Long hours stretched before him; dinner wasn't served until at least 6 and that was a lifetime away. A long afternoon stretched before him with nothing but reading and thinking about a woman he couldn't have. The woman who forgot him in an instant. Hurt, frustrated, and angry (with himself mostly), he needed work. Reading might be mental work, but it was the pure physical kind that distracted. Physical work helped one to forget. Throwing off his coat and donning some greasy clothes, Tom headed to the garage to work on the cars. His afternoon was spent replacing all of the tires, cleaning the leather interior, changing the oil, and other tasks that were extensive and hard.

By 5:45 he was exhausted and covered in grease, wax, and sweat. Washing his face and arms, he quickly made his way to the kitchen. Tom was proud of himself; physical labor had taken the sting out of her rejection and he was in a much better mood than when he left the kitchen. He ate more of Mrs. Patmore's divine food and lingered over a cup of tea with the other servants. By the time dinner was over, he was feeling more like himself. He didn't need Sybil's company. In fact, the other workers were cheerful and delightful enough, even if they didn't discuss politics. He bid goodnight to everyone, put on his coat, and headed for the back door.

"Tom, wait up," a voice said behind him. He turned around only to find Gwen walking quickly towards him in the hall.

She looked around suspiciously and then pulled out a letter from her apron.

"This is for you from Lady Sybil." She said, smiling shyly. "I didn't read it. I'm sure it's…private"

A letter? For him? Really? Not hours ago he had been cursing the absence of a letter, but now he was genuinely surprised. Dumbfounded, Tom took the letter and put it in his pocket "Thank you, Gwen. I owe you one I'm sure."

He practically ran back to the cottage, a silly grin plastered on his face. He finally had news of Sybil. Yet even in his bliss over her letter, he knew he shouldn't write back. It would only complicate matters. He would merely read it so as to ascertain how she was, read just to know what it said.

Resolved, he sat down in the same chair she had once sat in, reverently opened the crisp paper, and began to read.

_Grantham Terrace_

_Mayfair _

_19 June 1914_

_Dearest Tom,_

_You thought I would forget you, but I have not, I cannot forget you. You thought I would felt shame over our kiss, but all I can feel is elation, anticipation at the thought of another kiss from your sensual lips._

_You might be back at Downton, but you are constantly in my thoughts here in London. I often think "What would Tom think of this…" or "How Tom would laugh at this…". I attend parties nearly every night with my family, but I take little pleasure in them. Oh I dance and socialize, I smile and nod, but it's all an act. My father once told me that we all have roles to play-lord of the manor, valet, butler, maid, and chauffeur. I play the role of Lady Sybil Crawley (very well I might add), daughter of a peer and debutante in her first London Season. But it's just that: an act, a farce, an allusion. It is only at night when the curtain finally goes down. Alone in my room (as I am now) I am myself. I am Sybil Crawley, the woman who's in love with you. _

_I don't need to pretend with you. But more importantly, I can't. I can't pretend that my love for you isn't real because it's the most genuine thing I know about myself. Being with you, talking with you, kissing you is like finding the other half of soul. Maybe you'll laugh but in my favorite novel, _Wuthering Heights, _Cathy says of her deep and passionate love for Heathcliff that "whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same". As a young girl I would often sigh dramatically at that moment and dream of finding my own (albeit nicer) Heathcliff. Now it seems I have. I can think of no truer statement to describe the love and connection I feel with you._

_I dreamt of you last night. We were back in your cottage on the night of my accident, the night I told you I loved you, the night of our passionate kiss. And we didn't stop. You didn't pull away and I didn't leave, my feverish fantasies filling the gaps where my experience fails. Maybe you think me wicked for dreaming such things, but it's no more than I have thought before. I woke up gasping for air, covered in sweat, and missing you. Why did you pull away? Sometimes I think the moment was so perfect that it couldn't be real. Then I remember the pressure of your lips, your hands on my face, my neck and I know it is. There is no way my mind could conjure such sensations._

_Frankly, I'm not sure of the purpose of this letter. I wanted to assure you that I haven't forgotten you, nor do I intend to. I long to hear your voice, to hear your opinions. And maybe I long to know your feelings. Do you feel anything for me? Is it just lust? I know I come off as bold and confident, but separation from you has made me unsure of my own judgment. Some sign, some word would be enough. My love for you still stands strong, even in the tide of London's Season._

_Yours,_

_Sybil_

He was humbled. Moved. Overwhelmed. Her letter was so open and sweet, just like the woman herself. She dreamt of him? The thought of her alone in her room, dressed as she was in his cottage, fired his blood more than his own restless thoughts of past weeks. She was so brazen and honest in her passion for him. Her words were like a balm to his soul, soothing the separation of long weeks. To think she could still love him, miss him even with all the other more worthy men. It made him feel powerful, strong. And she wasn't sure if he even cared for her at all? She thought it was just lust? Did she not feel the intense connection between their bodies and their hearts? Did she not feel how close she had driven him to the edge? How much restraint it took for him not to show her with his body what his mind already knew? He knew that he hadn't said the words, but he thought the kiss had at least assured her of the return of some sentiment. Her vulnerability, particularly for someone so proud, was endearing. To write such a letter, with such insecure thoughts in her head, took some nerve.

He knew he shouldn't write back. It would only serve to hurt them both. But after finishing such a heartfelt and passionate note, it took a mere 30 seconds for him to realize it was impossible for him not to respond. Impossible not to respond quickly.

Grabbing a piece of stationary from his small and precious collection, Tom penned an answer to Sybil.

At lunch the next day, Mrs. Hughes posted a letter to Grantham Terrace from Gwen.

Please review! Frankly, reviews have become like caffeine for me. I can survive without them, but I work better and faster with them.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own _Downton Abbey_ or any of its characters. Those rights belong to ITV and Julian Fellowes . If I did own the show it would be very risqué.

Thanks to everyone for the lovely reviews. I never knew how important they were until I started writing myself. I can't tell you how excited I get when I see a new one up! This was a particularly difficult chapter to write. I wasn't quite sure how Branson should respond to Sybil's letter. What would he say back to her? How much of his feelings would he reveal? I think his letter turned out pretty well. I hope everyone is enjoying the literary allusions. I can't help myself.

Chapter 5

Mr. Carson walked into the dining room at breakfast with silver tray of letters. He passed the invitations to Lady Grantham, handed several letters of business to Lord Grantham, and gave a note to Edith.

Sybil tried not to show her disappointment. For the fourth day in a row she asked herself the same questions: When Tom respond? Did she come off as desperate? Was he shocked by her confessions? Did he think her silly?

But the most dominant question was would he even reply? He had seemed so cold the weeks leading up to the departure from London. And his parting words were so…final. He was so determined that she would forget, so certain that she would be taken with London and with other men.

Maybe he had already withdrawn himself from her. Maybe he even wished to forget her.

The insecurities swirled around in her head until she thought she would go mad.

But try as she might though she couldn't regret sending that letter. She had poured weeks of emotion and thoughts into the brief note. It was such a relief, so cathartic to pen genuine feelings and even her own naughty thoughts. Even if Tom laughed at her or dismissed her feelings. Even if he never sent a reply-at least he would know the feelings that he evoked. And as days passed without letter, that thought was her only comfort.

The family slowly left the table. There was business to attend to, calls to make, and shopping to be done. Sybil dejectedly followed. Before she met Tom she had dreamed of the excitement of London, such a stark contrast to the quiet of North Yorkshire. Now the long succession of things to do seemed tedious and overwhelming.

A very loud and gusty throat cleared behind her. Honestly, the man could teach Shakespearan actors a thing or two about the dramatic moment. She turned to Mr. Carson, smiling.

"Yes, Mr. Carson? You wanted something?" she said.

"Yes, Lady Sybil, I did. This missive arrived for you today" he pulled a letter out of his pristinely pressed coat. "I thought it might be best to deliver it…privately".

Sybil took the letter in her hand, nodding and smiling up at the old butler. Everyone knew that Mary was Carson's favorite, but his loyalty and love extended to all of them.

"Oh thank you, Carson," she gushed with excitement. "I think it best if all of my letters were delivered this way."

He sighed and looked as if he might object, but then he said "As you wish, my lady". One corner of his mouth pulled up into a slight smile before he straightened and walked away.

It wasn't until late that evening that she was finally alone and could read Tom's hands unfolded the surprisingly luxurious paper as she began to read:

_Chauffeur's Cottage_

Downton Abbey

_North Yorkshire_

_23 June 1914_

_Dear Sybil,_

_This is dangerous. We are dangerous. Letters (let alone kisses or a relationship) between the two of us are inappropriate. Not to mention grounds for dismissal for me and embarrassment for you. You are a lady and I am still a chauffer, a romance between us can only end badly._

_But tonight, dear Sybil, I can't make myself care. I am done fighting. Fighting my feelings. Fighting society's expectations. I'm done fighting the idea of us. The knowledge that you still love me, that you think of me (even erotically ) warms me more than hot whisky on a cold winter night. I cannot resist you._

_I knew from the first moment I laid eyes on you that you would mean something to me. It was my first night at Downton Abbey and after taking your grandmother home, I decided to take a stroll around the grounds. It had been a good first day but the whirlwind of it all had excited me too much to sleep. The hour was rather late and the house was nearly dark. Save for one window—yours. I looked up and you were sitting in the window. I couldn't make out much of the details, but the light and the moonlight illuminated your beautiful face. Now I'm not much of a fan of Shakespeare's romances (as you can guess I prefer his histories) but in that moment I heard the words of a long forgotten Romeo: "But soft! What light through yonder window breaks/ It is the east and Juliet is the sun". I always thought him to be a bit of a nutter (why spend so much time speaking to yourself when you can talk to her?), but in that moment his words rang more true. Your beauty was blinding, shining, warming. And since that moment you have only grown more beautiful. Your zeal for politics, your assistance to Gwen have all shown that your interior is just as beautiful as your exterior. _

_You must know that what I feel for you is not just lust. I won't deny that I am extremely attracted to you, that I too dream of you-my body aches for the warmth of your skin and the softness of your lips. But the passion I feel is not confined to the ..bedroom. I want to hold your hand, to hear your throaty voice speak my name, to see the brightness in your eyes as we discuss the vote for women. There is a physicality to my feelings, but the fire burns hot everywhere. _

_I can't write the words, you know which ones. Our eventual separation holds me back. We are so different. You're English. I'm Irish. You're a lady. I'm a chauffeur. You've had wealth all your life. I've known nothing but struggle and poverty. Times may be changing, England may be changing, but it's likely not quick enough for us. I told you once I won't always be a chauffer and I believe that. But who knows when those dreams will be reality, if ever? So you see, I need to hold back. I have to keep something to myself. You have everything else, but you can't have the words. Not yet at least. _

_God, how I miss you. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I am already too fond of you. I long to see you, to talk to you, to kiss and feel you. Please write me soon. Oh and tell me more about your naughty dreams. I am far from scandalized…quite the opposite actually._

_Yours,_

_Tom_

It was heartbreaking and so beautiful. A tear had escaped from her eye as she laughed at his last request. Laughter through tears was a bittersweet sensation, but a sensation she feared would figure prominently in a relationship with Tom. She penned a reply to send via Mr. Carson in the morning. She then folded up the letter and stuck it in her copy of _Wuthering Heights_.

Her dreams that night were not salacious. Rather she dreamt that Tom said "I love you".

FINIS

Please review! I am so excited to see the next installment of letters between these two. I think the rating might go up…


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I do not own _Downton Abbey. _I only wish I did.

Just a couple of things-I was watching _Downton Abbey _last night and realized that the London townhouse is actually Grantham House, not Grantham Terrace. I'm anticipating another chapter of letters before the family returns to Downton Abbey. On another note, the rating has just gone up. Thanks to everyone for the reviews! I am so addicted to them!

Chapter 6

_Grantham House_

_Mayfair_

_27 June 1914_

_Dearest Tom, _

_I thought you were supposed to be the idealist. I won't say that your concerns about us are unfounded. We do have so obstacles in our way. But I don't care, I want to be with you! I want to overcome those obstacles together. Not as Sybil the Lady and Branson the Chauffeur. Your social position, your Irishness, your struggles are what have made you who you are. I wouldn't have you erase them, but I don't see you as only the culmination of those things. The things you've overcome, your dreams, they make me love you even more. You are so much more than chauffeur. You're the man I love and I could never be ashamed of my love for you._

_One day you'll understand that. One day you'll feel secure enough in us, secure enough in me, to say the words I so long to hear. And on that day we won't need to hide what's between us, because we'll be just that- two people in love with each other. But you are right, this relationship is dangerous. I wouldn't see you fired because of me before, I won't see it now. _

_You can't resist me? Really? I wasn't aware that I had such an affect on you. I thought I might be alone in my desire. Seriously, what is a lady to think when a brass young man pulls away during the most amazing kiss imaginable? As for my dreams, your kiss has made most of my dreams terribly wicked and vivid. But I shall tell you one (although you must reciprocate, I won't have inequality in this area of our relationship). As you know I often find myself in your cottage, sharing that awakening kiss. However, in my dreams, my hands seem to have a mind of their own. They often get tangled in your hair. But in particular, they somehow find their way to your chest. Dream Sybil usually skims her hands over your shoulders, then your upper chest, to your waist, and up the length of your back. In the meantime, Dream Tom is equally as handsy. Your hands roam my shoulders and my back, even fitting your hands around my waist, pulling me closer. You whisper my name in that sensual Irish brogue. And that is where I usually wake up. Oh, I'm terribly curious about what happens next, but it seems my mind cannot continue where my experience has no purchase. _

_My mother has told me some things-what my body should experience, how I should stay away from men, how I could end up a "fallen woman"- but it seems the only advice she gives is to carry a hatpin and avoid being alone with men. I never thought to bring a hatpin on my late night visit to your cottage. As a descendent of the New Woman movement, I know something of what happens next. Yet the details are unclear. Women do not have access to knowledge about their own bodies or the physical part of a relationship. Naturally as curious as I am, I've snuck peaks at medical books in the library. But none of these things could've prepared me for the heat, the passion, the wanting that came from our kiss. I know it's supposed to be dangerous, particularly for a woman, but it felt amazing. I felt free. Cherished. In ways I never imagined that I needed or wanted. Did it feel that way for you? Milton (misogynist that he is) says "know to know no more". Is it so wrong to want to know more? And that I want to learn it from you?_

_It seems like a lifetime until I'll see you again, but it's only a few more weeks. Please write back to me. Your letters have become essential to my sanity during this London Season. _

_I love you. I won't stop loving you. _

_Yours,_

_Sybil_

_Chauffeur's Cottage_

_Downton Abbey_

_North Yorkshire_

_30 June 1914_

_Dearest Sybil,_

_I wish I weren't a realist. But if anything, this week and the Archduke's assassination has proven that we must live in the world that we inhabit. And not the one we hope will come to pass. War is coming and along with it change for the worse (and hopefully the better). We live in a time of uncertainty and nothing is more uncertain than our future. But you've taught me to hope. To hope that things will change. To hope that we'll even have a future. You must know I want to be with you, Sybil. But we can't wish the world away, we live in place that prohibits our relationship. A friendship between us would transgress boundaries, but a relationship? It's completely forbidden. I want to give you everything you want. It's what I want too. But I can't. You must know it's not an easy task for me to deny you anything. _

_Speaking of my restraint, my God, your sensual curiosity would captivate a monk. You think of such scandalous things? I thought proper ladies weren't supposed to have such vivid and active imaginations. Mind, there's nothing proper about you-you help housemaids become secretaries, you attend rallies and counts, you wear harem pants (yes, I saw them. I snuck to the window of the drawing room. I had to see such a beautiful act of rebellion. I thought your grandmother was going to fall off her chair!) not to mention you've fallen in love with a chauffeur. And yes, it felt that way for me. Exactly. While I don't have much experience with women, I wouldn't call myself innocent. But our kiss blew me away. It felt like my first time-for everything. I never knew a kiss could affect me so much, that it could be so pure and so primal at the same time. It took all my restraint to stop. To pull away and walk you home when all I wanted was to keep going. To show you with my body what I couldn't say in words. I thought I knew desire before, but you've shown me that I didn't know anything at all. You want to know more? So do I. Is that wicked? No, it's only natural that two people who feel as we do want to express ourselves in a physical way. I long to teach you and for you to teach me. _

_Now don't say I didn't oblige you-I'll tell you of my dream. But be forewarned, it is much more…erotic than you can possibly imagine. You asked, however, my dear, so I will tell. As you know, I constantly live in the setting of our kiss. This only fuels my thoughts and my dreams. But back to the task, I do dream of you. Often. Every night. My dreams start the same way as yours do. We're here in this cottage, kissing passionately. But my lips move to your neck. You have the most elegant neck. Dream Tom can't help but brush soft and lingering kisses against the sensitive skin. However, here comes the scandal-my hands cup your breasts. ( now do you want that hatpin?). Your breasts are full and soft and fit well in the palm of my hands. I can't stop with cupping though, my thumbs brush against the tips. We both moan at the contact-giving you pleasure feeds my own pleasure… I think it best that I stop there. I'm sure I've scandalized you too much already. And you thought your dreams were wicked?_

_I miss you. I know it's only a couple of weeks until you're back at Downton (and you might be avoiding the depraved chauffeur after this letter), but it seems like too long. With every sentence you write I become more enamored of you. You are so beautiful, in so many ways, that it would take me several days to tell them all. I long to see you, to know that this has all been real. _

_Know that you are in my thoughts constantly, not an hour goes by without your voice and your presence invading my head. _

_Yours,_

_Tom_

What do you think of these two letters? Please review!


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I do not own _Downton Abbey. _

Thank you for the reviews! They really galvanize me to write and to write faster. Special shout out to Poseidon's Daughter. I'm happy to hear that this story made you pleasantly (and naughtily?) aware of your surroundings. Believe me, I've been there. That's why I can't read this website at the my university's library. I'm terrified one of my students will stumble upon me in the middle of a salacious fanfic. Oh the horror! Oh the loss of ethos!

I'm glad to know that my dirty thoughts about our favorite couple are appreciated. Thanks again, everyone!

Chapter 7

_Grantham House_

_Mayfair_

_4 July 1914_

_Dearest Tom,_

_Oblige me indeed. Dream Tom is rather naughty. I think it might take me several days to recover from the "knowledge" that you've so willingly bestowed upon me. I confess that my curiosity has been in a similar bent-let's hope you have more "knowledge" to impart. I am an eager pupil. So the answer is no, I will not be avoiding the depraved chauffer. Rather the opposite actually. As you said before, I'm not a proper lady.(and my hatpins are safely stowed away)_

_It seems that the Archduke's assassination has given people something to actually talk about other than fashion and gossip. However, the men I must dance with at parties have no desire to hear my opinions on the subject of war or anything political for that matter. They chat about the weather, give false compliments, and discuss the latest plays on Drury Lane. But conversation is nothing solid, nothing tangible. And yet I'm expected to marry one of these boors! How is anyone to ascertain a person's true character in a ballroom? For my part, I think the best place to talk is in the backseat of a car and the topics should be on politics and history. I would rather be with you, anywhere, than here in London in a stuffy ballroom with men who care only for the ornamental place I'll fulfill. I am thankful that we'll only be here little over a week and then I will be back at Downton. Back with you, where I belong._

_I did see you that evening I wore my harem pants. In fact, I wanted you to see me. Until that day we were alone in the car and you handed me the pamphlets, I wasn't sure what you would mean to me. I knew how attractive you were (the first time I saw you holding open the door for my family, I did stop in my tracks), but I've always been taught to let servants take the lead in the whole friendship business. There's that invisible distance between us that I've always respected. As someone in the position of power, I didn't want to force a friendship which a servant would feel obliged to return. However, I did try to catch your eye before you initiated a friendship. I had several tricks ups my sleeves-I'd glance in the rearview mirror or say something sassy and witty in hopes of seeing you smile. I knew you listened to our conversations, how could you help it? But that day you finally spoke to me, everything was so significant. You turned towards me, you passed me the pamphlets, and I started to fall in love with you right then. I didn't know it at the time, didn't even want to admit such thoughts to myself, but there you were, constantly in my mind. I made up so many reasons to take trips alone with you. You were the first person to every listen to me, really listen to what I had to say._

_I did buy that dress with rebellion in mind, but I hoped that you would want to see it too. So yes, I did see you staring at me in the window. While the look of utter horror on my grandmother's face was exactly the validation I wanted, it was your approval I needed. Even now I can picture your smiling face and slightly shaking head as you looked at me in that flamboyant dress. _

_My love for you only grows stronger. As does my passion for the things we both dream about. Only nine more days…_

_Yours,_

_Sybil_

_Chauffeur's Cottage_

_Downton Abbey_

_North Yorkshire_

_7 July 1914_

_Dearest Sybil,_

_I figured I better write back as quickly as I could. Mrs. Hughes has just informed me that I am to pick up your family on Monday, July 13__th__ at 3pm. Everyone around here is excited for the family to return to Downton. However, I am __ecstatic__ for the family to return to Downton, particularly one beautiful young woman. How is Mary by the way? Only kidding, you're the only one on my mind. _

_I am happy that I didn't scare you away with my passionate thoughts. For men, our thoughts and fantasies are often much more…intense. ( frankly, yours are in a category all their own) There's something about giving you pleasure which arouses me to no end. Thoughts of your pleasure fill my fantasies and as you can see, my dreams. Knowing that I'm showing you about your body, that I'm pleasing you…those are some of the most addictive thoughts. Maybe I am more of a servant than I thought. But we must be careful-like everyone, passion should be in moderation lest it lead to…consequences. I will be careful and controlled around you. You are so innocent and pure, so honest in your love and passion that my biggest fear is that I won't be able to control myself. You are an addiction, Sybil Crawley, a personal addiction that I can't fight. But I will control myself. I must resist the pulls of lust. God, maybe you should bring a hatpin. _

_Maybe you'll think me silly, but my other fear is that it won't be the same. These letters have allowed us both to express feelings which are better left repressed. I fear that once we are together here at Downton that we won't have the same openness. Maybe that's ridiculous. Or maybe my expectations are too high that I don't want them dashed when I see you. What if seeing me after these many weeks finally brings reality down on your head? What if the Tom of the letters is not the same Tom you see in front of you? I know I shouldn't be insecure about your love. You have done nothing but reassure me time and time again. But I am still the family's chauffer. Things will not get any easier just because you're here with me. Downton hasn't suddenly changed. The social order is still in place. And being with me, sneaking around with me will be our reality. Is that still what you want? Do you still want to chance it all for me? For Tom Branson, an Irish chauffer, a man with dreams, but no prospects? I'm sure you grow weary of my melancholy but I have to warn you. _

_We have grown closer…this correspondence as been intimate in every way. I fear that you've seen the depths of my very soul in these few letters. I just want you to be sure of the dangers our affair poses before you return. This is still unwise. I try not to care, but I can't, for your sake. Nothing has changed for me-I still want to be with you, however much time that will be. _

_Yours,_

_Tom_

_Grantham House_

_Mayfair_

_9 July 1914_

_My darling Tom,_

_I'm sending this immediately so you will receive it on or before Monday. _

_I may be young, but I am not fickle. In fact, I love you and I am quite determined to make you love me. Just as your passion does not scare me, be not afraid of my love. You have altered me. These letters have only made me deeper in love with you. I know when I get off that train on Monday that I will see you, the man I love. The man I love with the fire and permanence of a thousand suns. Is that clear enough, my dear?_

_On Monday, give me some sign that you believe me. I love you-I haven't stopped loving you since the moment you gave me those pamphlets. I will make you believe me. _

_Yours always,_

_Sybil_

FINIS

Please review! I hope that you enjoyed these letters. Frankly, I couldn't stop writing!

What will happen when these two are back together? And will it be…naughty?


	8. Chapter 8

Dislcaimer: I do not own _Downton Abbey_. But I so wish I did.

Thanks to everyone again for the great reviews! I'm sorry this chapter took so long to put up. It was a bit difficult to write (not to mention my Spring Break, grading, shenanigans were intruding) as I wasn't sure how far our couple should go. Let's hope the sexiness and the length of this chapter make up for the long delay. I hope you enjoy the salaciousness and would love to hear what you think.

Chapter 8

It wasn't easy being patient. The ride from Victoria Station to Ripon was a long one. The train seemed to inch home rather than speed and the minutes dripped by like a leaky faucet. Six weeks. Nearly six weeks had passed since she had headed in the opposite direction, away from Tom. Now she was going towards him.

The thought made her a little nervous. Her hands were sweaty, fidgety even. There were butterflies in her stomach and she could barely contain the secretive smiles when she thought of Tom. Smiles she knew she would need to hide to avoid any detection of a relationship with Tom.

After what seemed like years, instead of hours, the Crawleys arrived in Ripon and disembarked from the train. And Tom Branson was there to greet them. His head was bowed, he was leaning against the car, reading a newspaper. He looked…amazing. In that moment all of her love rushed back onto her, almost like her first realization of it. Unbridled, the words of his letters came into her mind…_I cannot resist you_…._my body aches for the warmth of your skin and the softness of your lips_…_ not an hour goes by without your voice and your presence invading my head._

As if he could hear her thoughts, his eyes suddenly glanced up (his adorable reading expression, something like pouty consternation, still on his face). For a brief moment before he straightened, his eyes burned into hers. She felt…seared. Hot. Intimate. The moment was short (and well hidden) but powerful nonetheless. She was still reeling by the time they reached the car.

"Hello, your lordship, your ladyship, _ladies_" he said, putting particular emphasis on the last word.

"Branson. It's good to be back. I trust you weren't too bored during our trip. I'm sure my mother kept you…occupied" said Lord Grantham, the coldness gone from his address. Weeks away had cooled his anger towards Branson.

"Yes, your lordship. I was far from bored," he replied. He helped everyone into the carriage of the car, Sybil first (she wanted to be the last one out). The feel of their hands entwined, even through gloves, was as powerful as she remembered. She knew better than to let her hand linger, particularly with her family right behind, but it was difficult to let go. Six weeks. Six long weeks away from him and she couldn't even hold his hand.

The ride from the station to Downton Abbey was blessedly short. It was even more important that Sybil hide her feelings, engage in appropriate conversation, and stop looking toward the chauffer. It wasn't as hard to play the role of "Lady Sybil" with Tom away in Yorkshire. But to play the role of "Lady Sybil" under the watchful eye of her family was difficult. His presence was intoxicating.

They pulled up to the front door where the staff awaited their arrival. Tom helped everyone ascend from the carriage.

"Lady Sybil" he said, his eyes meeting hers for the first time since the train station (despite many times trying to catch his gaze in the rearview mirror). His hand grabbed hers and she felt something small pressed into her hand. She looked down-it was note.

"Branson, why thank you." she said with feeling.

Quickly, she slipped it into her pocket and rushed forward to walk in with Edith.

She smiled brightly as she chatted with her sister.

His note was the sign she had been waiting for. It was the sign that he believed her.

It was another twenty minutes before she could read the note. Alone in her room, she pulled the small note out of her pocket and read:

_I do believe you. _

_Meet me tomorrow at 1 in the Garage. Everyone knows that I work on the cars in the afternoon and you can say you're taking a walk. DO NOT COME TO THE COTTAGE, not tonight or any night. We have to be careful and I can't be when we're alone in my home. The garage is private enough. I mean it, Sybil. _

_I can't wait to see you tomorrow. I've missed you so much. _

Tom was fidgety the whole of Tuesday morning. While the morning itself was uneventful-he drove her ladyship to call on Lady Violet-Tom was anxious to see Sybil.

He had seen her yesterday, sure. But it was all so formal. He had looked in her eyes. He had smelt the divine scent of her body. He had even held her hand. But none of those things were the same as being with her. Like he would be today.

He ate lunch with the staff at the usual 12:30. As he hurriedly donned his jacket to rush back to the garage, Mr. Carson asked in his sternest voice, "Where are you off to in such a rush, Branson?"

"Oh nowhere, Mr. Carson. When I'm not needed in the afternoon, I work on the cars. That's been my schedule most of the summer, sir" he replied, coolly. It wasn't a lie. He would work on the cars this afternoon…eventually.

"Ah, I see. I forget that things change when I'm not around. I'll send William if his lordship needs you" he said.

Tom prayed that he wouldn't be needed. He walked briskly back to the cottage, not wanting to be late.

He loosened his collar, removed his jacket, and unbuttoned his waistcoat. Sometimes the livery of a chauffer could be rather confining. He was still properly dressed (particularly, since the last time she had been in this vicinity), but more casual. He liked to be casual with her.

He entered the garage, leaned against the car, and began to wait.

The door to the garage opened and in she came. It was a bright day (rare in Yorkshire) and the sunlight illuminated the outline of her body. The garage was dark or at least dark compared to outside. Her eyes adjusted to the sudden change of light and it took a moment for her to see him.

He straightened up and spoke her name in a whisper. She moved quickly across the small space that separated them. He thought she meant to give him a hug, his arms open for the embrace. But as always, she surprised him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she covered his lips with her own. Surprised and suddenly aroused, he pulled her even closer, his body leaning back against the car.

The kiss was just like before and yet nothing like it. Her lips were still perfect-soft, supple, and eager. And she still made the most erotic sounds in the back of her throat. But there was no hesitation. It was all fire and heat. Her hands moved to his shirt and were clutching him closer. His own hands were on the small of her back, pushing her closer to his body until they were pressed together like leaves of a book. Their tongues battled for dominance and their mouths tilted to get a deeper fit.

Kissing her was like a feast after weeks of famine. His toes curled in boots, his skin became hot and flushed. He felt himself losing control. His palms itched to touch more of her, the details of which his dreams often filled in. He was already hard and with her body pressed so intimately against his, she could clearly feel the evidence of his arousal. They needed to slow down before he started to act on his wild thoughts…

He pulled away slightly and he managed to get out, "Sybil, we should-"

"Shut up. We've done enough talking" she replied, breathless. And she pulled his head down for another soul-searching kiss. As her eager tongue began to mate with his, he thought, _Maybe_ _she's right_, _maybe we have talked enough_.

Her hands were roaming his chest, just like she mentioned doing in her letter. She spread her palms over his pecs. The thin lawn of his shirt was little barrier between her hands and his skin-the contact set fire to his entire body. Her thumbs accidentally brushed his tiny puckered nipples and he gasped loudly.

"Did I hurt you?" she asked, breaking the kiss.

"No, God, no. It felt good…really, really good."

He didn't know such sensations existed. He thought he was supposed to be the experienced one. But Sybil was passionate. It shouldn't be a surprise that she was a natural.

He began to trail kisses down her cheek, her jaw line, and eventually came to her neck. She tilted her head to give him better access. His hands moved to her hair, dislodging her hat as his fingers sunk into the dark tresses. His mouth found the sensitive flesh of her neck, laving until her soft moans and breathless sighs filled the small garage.

Her hands suddenly framed his face and lifted it away from her neck. Their eyes locked-both sets half-lidded with passion and arousal.

"Touch me…like you said in your letter" she boldly ordered. Her voice had turned husky, erotic. The request made the fire burn even hotter in his loins. _Surely she couldn't mean.._

"Like my hands on your…?"

"Yes. I want you to," she responded eagerly.

"Are you sure?" he asked. The sensual haze was slightly lifted, but he was still hot. Very hot. And he wanted to. Really wanted to.

"Please" she whispered vehemently.

"If it pleases my lady," he replied with some humor. Tom switched places with her with her back pressed against the car. He checked over his shoulder that the door was closed and slowly unbuttoned her coat. Underneath she wore her a white blouse with a row of buttons in the center. It was simple, but to Tom it was the most provocative piece of clothing he'd seen. Well, aside from her nightgown. Her chest heaved with anticipation and her hands grabbed his, guiding them to her chest.

As he hesitated, she whispered, looking deep in his eyes, "Please". And he obliged.

His large hands cupped her soft breasts and her head lolled back against the car. Her sweet lips muttered, "Oh, God"

Her breasts were magnificent. Large and round, they fit perfectly, like they were made for his hands alone. He lifted her breasts with his palms and gently squeezed them. Perfect indeed. He traced the outline with his fingers while his thumbs brushed against the tip. While there were several layers between them, he could still feel the heat of her skin and her beaded nipple.

Tom looked up to watch her reaction. Soft moans spilled from her kiss swollen lips and her eyes were closed-she never looked more beautiful. He only wanted to give her more pleasure. Taking her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he lightly pinched.

"Oh" she said breathily, her eyes shot open and met his. Their lips met again, his mouth stifling her groans. He couldn't believe this was happening. His body already hard reached new heights as he continued to pleasure her breasts.

His lips found the now familiar path down her neck. But he didn't stop at her collarbones. He needed to look at her. To see the delicious flesh he caressed. With hands shaking, he unbuttoned her shirt. He went slowly, praying she would stop him and hoping that she wouldn't. This was going far-not to the lengths of his fantasies, but farther than she knew. Yet she didn't stop him. In fact, once he peeled back her shirt, she helped him to push down her corset. He could see the dark outline of her nipples through the thin layer of her chemise. His fingers dipped to the top of the chemise about to push it down.

"Are you sure?" he said.

"Please" she said again. He grew to like that word more and more.

His fingers pushed down her chemise and finally revealed her breasts.

Blank. His mind went blank with pleasure. Mr. Carson himself could have walked in and Tom wouldn't have noticed. Beautiful. It seemed such an inadequate word to describe the perfection of her breasts. They were…amazing. Creamy white skin with puckered pink tips. He had to taste them. He knew he shouldn't, knew he might scare her with his passion, knew that once he tasted her he wouldn't get enough. But he couldn't care. He needed to taste her. To bring her pleasure.

Tom lifted one lovely mound and flicked his tongue softly against one turgid nipple. Sybil let out a loud moan-half surprise, half pure pleasure. Her head fell back against the car, her back arching into his waiting mouth.

"Tom" she breathed, the sound of his name like a prayer on her lips. He gentled took her nipple into his mouth and sucked. Again, her half lidded eyes shot open as she let out another throaty moan. He continued the sweet torture-licking, sucking, nibbling while she withered beneath him. Her hand stroked his hair, keeping his head firmly against her breast. As if there was a need, he could do this all afternoon.

Their bodies had only come closer as she leaned against the car and he leaned in to pleasure her with his mouth. Her hips snug against his, began to nudge gently into his. Their actions were primitive, instinctual. Their simple kiss had spun out of control, but Tom couldn't stop himself from rubbing his hardness against her. She seemed to enjoy his response, her own hips pushing back harder. His lips trailed to her other breast where he repeated the same treatment as his fingers teased her just pleasured nipple.

She was killing him. Her body was made for passion, made for him. His control was slowly slipping. He could think of little else but sliding his hand under her skirt and touching her center. He was strung tight, his body pushed to the brink.

And then she did something totally unexpected. As she squirmed under him, her body half pinned to the car, her hips pleasurably trapped by his, she removed her hand from the death grip it had on his head and slide it down his shoulder, his chest, his stomach. Until finally she grabbed his hardness pinned between them.

"Oh. My. God." he said as shock and mindless pleasure exploded in his body. He nearly came right then. Fire burned through his body and her sweet action sent him closer to the edge than he'd ever been. He didn't just want to touch her. He wanted to take her. Make her his. Thrust high into her body until she wept with pleasure.

Realizing how quickly this had gotten out of control and how little control he had left, Tom abruptly jerked and turned away from her body.

His body protested the quick curtailment of its pleasure. The blood still pounded through his veins and he knew one look at her-her bare, heaving breasts and he would lose it. The only sounds that filled the small garage were of their shared, uneven breathes.

After what seemed like an eternity, but which was really only a few minutes, she whispered, "I'm sorry".

Surprised, Tom turned back (she had thankfully restored her clothing), only to see her avoiding his gaze. He should've realized his long silence would have an adverse affect.

Taking a step back to her and cradling her face in his hands, he said "Sorry for what? You have nothing to be sorry for. I should be the one apologizing. I didn't mean for us to go so…far. You must think me some crazed fiend—"

Her finger silenced him as she said, "No, no, not at all. It was wonderful. I never knew anything could be so divine. I thought I might've hurt you or that you thought me…too wanton."

"It was wonderful for me too. And you're not too wanton. Your passion is pure and delightful. I can't seem to get enough of you. But we can't meet like this. Or at least we can't do what we just did. I could barely control myself. I don't want to do something we'll both regret" he said, leaving the words hanging. They both knew what that something would be.

"I wouldn't regret it" she whispered vehemently.

Her words sent a burst of happiness through him. He wouldn't regret it either. But she would, eventually. She would marry some rich peer someday and then her virginity would mean a great deal. She would regret throwing it away. But she would more importantly, she would regret giving it to him.

He drew her closer into the embrace of his body, her head against his shoulder, his lips ghosted over her forehead. It was a perfect fit, their bodies fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

"You may think that now, but you'll change your mind. You won't have wanted to be ruined by an Irish chauffer" he said, sadly.

"But I—"

"Shh, don't argue, Sybil. You know it's for the best. For now, we need to be careful. I won't ruin you any more than I already have." he said, forcefully. He needed to stay strong in this regard. If not, they'd find themselves in an awful mess. He couldn't make love to her. If he did, he'd never be able to let her go. Ruin her, indeed, but he'd ruin himself in the process. If he hadn't already…

"I wasn't going to argue. Much. I was going to say 'I love you'" she said.

"I know you do, sweetheart, I know" he said, both their hearts breaking a little bit.

"Can I come here tomorrow? Please? I promise I'll behave. No seductive maneuvers. We can talk…and maybe kiss?" she said, her eyes sparkling.

He smiled in spite of himself, he really couldn't deny her "Yes, alright. Same time tomorrow, but only kisses. No inappropriate touching, minx. Understood?"

"Understood" she said, crossing her heart with her fingers.

She looped her arms around his neck, "One more kiss? You know, to seal our bargain?"

"Alright,"he said, lowering his head and placing his lips against hers. It was quick, but it was enough to reignite the dying embers of desire.

"Go" he said, setting her away from him.

She flounced away but stopped at the door and turned back. "I believe that was the nicest 'walk' I've ever had. I'll see you tomorrow, love" Smiling, she left the garage and for Tom, took all the sunlight with her.

FINIS

Please review! I absolutely love to read them. Seriously, I check like five times a day for them and get incredibly excited when I see a new one.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I do not own _Downton Abbey_ or any of its characters.

_Sorry for the delay with this chapter. It too was a little tricky to write, but I am very happy with how it turned out. Thanks again for all the wonderful reviews. They continue to make my day! I particularly appreciate those of you who have said that these characters are like the ones in the Series. Nothing is more flattering._

_After this there are only two more chapters :( Our favorite couple gets rather naughty here. Enjoy!_

Chapter 9

She was done waiting. She had been done waiting for nearly three days, but out of respect for Tom's blasted chivalric rules she hadn't tried anything. Yet.

They had spent six afternoons in the garage together while she took a "walk" and he worked on the cars. Six afternoons of long conversations and even greater intimacy. But six days with very few kisses.

It wasn't that Sybil minded the conversation. It was wonderful that she and Tom could finally talk. He told her about his home in Ireland, his dreams for the future. They talked about politics-more than just women's rights or poverty, but the social change that could and should be done.

They talked about books and poetry. Tom's favorite was a new Irish poet and playwright called William Butler Yeats. Her own favorites were still John Keats and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. She had spent one afternoon reciting "Ode to Autumn" and "Sonnet 43" (the latter she spoke with particular zeal for the man she loved to the "depth and breath and height" her own soul could reach).

Even if his conversation weren't fascinating (which it definitely was), she knew she could listen to his melodic voice for hours. Every word that spilled from his mouth was like poetry. He caressed every syllable, made love with his tone. After hearing the "Queen's English" and the Yorkshire drawl all her life, his Irish brogue was pure magic.

He even kissed her. Although it was usually a perfunctory kiss at the beginning of her visit and one at the end. But these dutiful kisses lacked the…passion of before. Oh they were well and good, but nothing compared to the power and intensity with which they had kissed just last week. And sadly, they were nowhere near as scandalous.

It was pure torture being in that garage afternoon after afternoon. There they were, in the exact scene of the infamous snog and she was unable to do anything. As if she would ever get the images out of her head. His head at her breast. The look on his face when she had touched him. His nimble fingers stroking her, cupping her. The worst part was that those divine hands were constantly present during their afternoon chats. And they weren't idle.

If he wasn't totally ignorant of the affect he was having on her, she might've thought he was doing it on purpose. But no, he kept up the hard work on her father's cars. His hands tightened. They squeezed. They stroked. And every day she went a little madder.

By day six it was time for a change of plan. And she had a plan.

Entering the library, Sybil walked over to her father. His hands scribbled yet another note on the recent news at Downton. She could hardly believe it herself. Her mother pregnant.

"Another announcement, I see. Who's this one for?" she said.

"Lord Danforth, an old chap of mine from Eton. He continues to try to one up me like we're boys still at school. We'll see if this keeps him quiet for a while" he said, a smile gracing his lips. Her father was often in a good mood since the news. She was counting on it, actually.

"Papa, I wondered if I might have the car this afternoon? My meetings are starting up again," she said, a slight tremor of pleading in her voice.

"Take your sister"

"Oh, but you know how much she hates it…besides, I heard that Sir Anthony is taking her for a ride later"

"Well, you must think me quite mad to let you alone with Branson after the Count. What makes me think that I should trust you again? Or the two of you together? God knows what kind of ludicrous ideas you two rebels could come up with. No," he said, sternly.

"Papa, I think a head wound was lesson enough. Besides, I would never put Branson's position in jeopardy like that. I told you before, it was all my idea. And believe me, those ideas were knocked out with my fall," she said, firmly. It was true…she had other ideas now.

She could see him waver and went in for the deathblow, "Wasn't I the perfect lady in London? I didn't talk politics or the vote. Plus, I didn't do anything remotely political. No meetings, no door to door campaigning. You know how important this is to me. Please, Papa, please," she said, just the tiniest bit of pout coming to her lips. She might not be the baby in a couple months, but she had many years of practice.

"Oh, alright. But you need to be back by 3. And for God's sake, don't drag Branson into any of your messes again. Good servants are hard to come by and I happen to like the Irish revolutionary" he said.

At 1pm sharp, Branson helped Lady Sybil into the car. While she wanted desperately to sit up front with her sweetheart, she knew it was a bad idea. Besides, Tom thought they were going to Ripon. Little did he know.

"So we're going to Ripon for your meeting, milady?" he said, his eyes glancing back in the mirror.

"Yes and stop the 'milady' bit. We're alone now," she whispered the last two words seductively, "Do you know the back road to Ripon? The one that goes around the cottages and the back of the estate? I want to take that way"

"But won't you be late for your meeting?"

"I thought I gave the orders, Branson," she said, tartly.

His blue eyes sparkled in the mirror, "As my lady wishes" he said.

They drove along the back way past the cottages. He told her about his day, the latest gossip in the servants' hall, and the letter he had received from his mother. After a few minutes they fell into a comfortable silence. _Now's the time…_

"Do you know what an orgasm is?" she said rather abruptly. He nearly swerved off the road.

"A what? Where did you hear about such a thing?"

"Oh, I read it in a book I found in the library. Curious lot, those Victorians. They often pretended rigid sexuality when inside they were actually quite lusty. And you didn't answer the question," she said.

"Yes, I know what it is"

"Have you ever had one?"

His brow furrowed before he answered as if he wasn't sure whether to lie or tell the truth. Eventually he said, "Yes," his voice a little hoarse. She heard his leather gloves squeak as they tightened on the wheel. His jaw suddenly taut.

_Good, it's about time he's as uncomfortable as I've been the past few days_, she thought.

"Well, I want one. And I want you to give it to me."

"Have you lost your mind? You cannot just come in the car, ask me a series of extremely scandalous questions, and then ask me to give you an orgasm"

"Well, I hear they're quite nice. The French call it the little death. Is that how it feels?"

He paused for a moment then answered," Yes, alright, it does feel like that. But I can't give you one."

"Are you saying you don't know how? Because I read a couple of tips in this book. Something with the clitoris-"

"Yes, I bloody well know how to bring a woman to orgasm. I didn't mean I can't. I mean I won't."

"I hear you don't need to ruin me to achieve it. Rather, I think it works better without penetration."

"My God, Sybil, you really know how to cut to the quick, don't you? What about my control? That is the reason we have put boundaries, limits on our physical relationship. The reason we need them."

"I trust you."

"You shouldn't. You are too much a temptation for my restraint. If my control slips, you could end up ruined. Ostracized. An outcast. It'll make what's happening to your sister look pleasant. We can't chance it."

"Well, I could also satisfy you as well. Seriously, this book had amazing details."

"No, absolutely not. God, even the thought of you touching me like that…bloody hell, no. What about your meeting?" He shifted uncomfortably again.

"I don't have one. I have contrived to get you alone. Now let's find a secluded spot and pull over,"

"Seriously, Sybil, we can't" a note of pleading in his voice, "Why don't we go back to the garage for a while? We can talk-"

"No" she interrupted. "I am tired of talking. That's all we ever do anymore. I want more. You gave me one taste of passion only to leave me unsatisfied. I want to experience more. Please, I want to experience it with you. Show me."

He looked for a moment like he might refuse. Then he blew out a deep breath he had been holding only to say, "Alright, alright. But there have to be rules. Rules that I make. And you have to agree to them."

"You and your rules. You'd think I was still in the nursery. Alright, what kind of rules?"

"Rule #1: No removal of clothing. We can push bits aside, lift, but nothing comes off. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"Rule #2: You can't touch me."

"What? How am I to enjoy the experience if I can't touch you? Wouldn't it be easier if I could satisfy your desires as well?"

"You can enjoy the experience without touching me, I promise. And no, it won't be easier. Agreed?"

Reluctantly, she said"Alright, agreed."

"Rule #3: We go home after we're finished and you don't pull any more stunts like this. We continue as before. No coming to the cottage late at night or fake trips to Ripon. Things like that go noticed more than you think and we cannot risk discovery. Agreed?"

"But what if I want more? What if I want it again?" she said, challengingly.

"Then we'll discuss it. But I don't want to be put on the spot like this. I know you are…curious, but we need to be careful. Do you agree?"

"I agree. Now let's get on with it. I think I have waited long enough" she said.

They drove a little further down the road. By this time, they were already in the far back of the estate. Far from the main house and far from any of the cottages. Tom pulled off the road and into a small inlet in the forest. He drove the car back until they were barely visible from the road. While it certainly wasn't a sunny day out, the canopy of trees darkened the car further. Tom turned off the engine, took a deep breath, and got out. He opened the door, a determined and controlled look on his face, then hopped in the back seat.

Sybil had already scooted over so there was enough room for him to sit beside her. There was no denying the intimacy of the back seat. Tom removed his hat and his gloves as she did the same. All the while their eyes locked.

His hands framed her face and his lips slowly descended to hers. But before their lips could connect, he said, earnest and sad, "This will change things."

"Things changed the moment you carried me from the Count" she whispered right before her lips pressed to his.

It felt as right as it had before. There was none of the previous restraint of the past couple of days. The passion, the heat, the connection between them burned with the same intensity as it had that first time the garage. But Sybil felt something more. Something deeper and darker and strangely, more powerful. This time their kiss was leading somewhere. Every time they kissed he took her to some new height of knowledge and sensuality, but this time, she knew that it would lead to something she couldn't imagine. This wasn't impulsive. It was planned and the anticipation was clear and present.

Tom's lips were the perfect combination of softness and strength. They would nudge and devour her own lips, all the while the texture sliding and caressing her. It was perfection and purely arousing. Her skin felt hot all over. Her breath was erratic and she couldn't keep herself from moaning. By the time his tongue slide into her mouth, she was nearly overwhelmed with need. His mouth mimicked what his body could do to hers.

She tried to keep her hands to herself, but after a few minutes of his passionate kisses she needed to touch him, even innocently. So her hands wound around his neck and into his hair. Thankfully he didn't protest. His own hands traced the curves of her body. Her waist, her hips, finally coming up to rest on her breasts. She tore her mouth away to moan. It felt so good. As good as it did before. She had never known her breasts were so sensitive, but one touch from him was enough to drive her wild.

Her nipples pebbled against his hands, the few layers between them only increased the friction against the vulnerable tips. Tom's mouth feasted on her exposed neck as his fingers began to unbutton her shirt.

She smiled as he pushed aside the shirt. Her thin chemise now the only barrier between his hands and her chest. His eyes widened at the sight before him, "Good Lord, you didn't wear a corset?"

"I came prepared," she said smugly. After all the complaining Sybil did about the blasted contraptions, Anna wasn't surprised when she decided not to wear one.

His eyes heated before he pushed down her chemise to reveal her breasts. She tried not to be embarrassed, but it was rather difficult when he looked at her so intently. "You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?" he said right before his mouth moved down. His tongue flicked out, teasing the very tip with gentle brushes of his tongue. Then his tongue slowly circled the whole nipple, teasing her with more brushes. It wasn't enough. She needed more pressure.

And boy, did he give it. After a few more moments of teasing, his mouth closed around her aroused nipple and sucked. She couldn't prevent the loud groan that from between her swollen lips. His lips and teeth gently nibbled on her turgid tip. She felt mindless. Her skin felt tight. Her body felt weak. Hot. Damp with desire.

They had started out facing each other as they sat in the backseat. But as their kisses and touches grew more intense somehow she had ended up on her back against the bottom of the seat. Tom was half on top of her, his clever mouth bringing her more pleasure than she could stand. While they weren't fully pressed together, his weight on top of her felt nice. More than nice. The hard muscles of his chest bracketed her ribcage and her stomach, while his lower stomach pressed against her pelvis. Now that in particular felt good. It seemed that all of the caresses contracted in that one spot. Every lick of his tongue, every soft bite of his teeth sent jolts straight there.

His hand began to ease up the hem of her skirt and her body quivered with anticipation. This, this was exactly what she wanted. As his hand rose higher and higher, it found nothing to separate his hand from her flesh. With a look of shocked exasperation, he asked, "You decided to forgo stockings and drawers also?"

"I came prepared," she repeated huskily. That had been a little more difficult to explain, but Anna, the good servant and friend she was, had not said a word.

His eyes shuttered as he managed to choke out, "You will be the death of me, Sybil."

She was about to respond with a sassy barb, but at that moment his thumb swept over center and all words were forgotten. Relief coursed through her. It was satisfaction, but also longing. He repeated the movement, this time a little harder and she couldn't think. Pleasure and anticipation washed over her body. She knew she should feel embarrassed, maybe even scandalized, but this was everything she wanted. His hands were on her, pleasuring her, taking her to planes she never thought existed.

Abruptly, his finger thrust into her and she gasped, her back arching. The heel of his hand pressed against flush against her tingling flesh. As if of their own volition her hips undulated against his searching fingers. _More_. It was the only thing she could think. She wanted more.

His finger thrust in and out, slowly at first, and then with more vigor. It felt like she was heading to something just out of reach. Her breath became shorter. Her movements more rigid. Pleasure coiled tightly in her center.

"Look at me," he whispered, breaking through some of the sensual haze. Her half lidded eyes opened and met his.

And there in the naked expression of his eyes she read his feelings. She saw the love, the passion, the indestructible bond between them. His eyes said what he could not. The weight of his gaze only heightened her arousal to a fever pitch. She didn't know what was happening, she was on the precipice of something. It was frightening and exhilarating.

"Let go," he whispered, his ragged voice and the firm pressure of his hand sent her flying over the edge.

"Oh, oh Tom" she said, loudly. Wave upon wave of pleasure coursed through her body. Her back arched, her fingers and toes curled, her eyes closed as her head lolled back against the seat. She was drowning in an abyss of white heat.

Just as quickly as it began, it stopped. Her body felt exhausted and incredibly satisfied. A silly grin came to her face before she opened her eyes to gaze at her love.

His eyes were closed and she could see he was fighting for control.

"Are you sure I can't-" she asked.

"No, don't touch me. Please. Just give me a minute" he said, his eyes still closed. He removed his hands from under her skirts and sat back against the seat. He was breathing heavily and deeply, clearly trying to calm his aroused body. She straightened her clothes, not wanting to make it any harder for him.

After a few moments his eyes opened. He gave her a boyish grin as his fingers stroked her cheek, "So do you agree with the French, sweetheart? Was it a little death?"

She giggled, "That and more. Thank you. It was amazing."

She snuggled into his shoulder as he put his arm around her body. She sighed, "I wish we could stay here forever."

"Well, it would be mighty difficult as we-"

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, sweetheart, I do."

They sat together for a few minutes longer before Tom went back to the front seat to drive them back to Downton Abbey.

Sybil straightened her hair on the way back. She didn't want her father to find her a mess and think that she had been involved in another "riot" or something else ridiculous.

Tom helped her out of the car and their eyes met. His still held the same tenderness, an openness that she hadn't seen before this afternoon. He was always so guarded, so in control and in some ways, aloof. She knew it was a mode of self-preservation. A means to protect himself from what he perceived as her fickleness and embarrassment at their relationship. But after today, it felt like a small barrier had broken. He still hadn't said he loved her, but it was there, it was in his eyes. "I hope your meeting went well today, milady," he said, smiling secretly.

"Oh it did, Branson, it did," she said. He was right. Things had changed.

FINIS

_Don't worry, he'll say it, I promise. I think it was about time the salacious bits were filtered through Sybil's perspective. _

_Please review! I love feedback. _


	10. Chapter 10

**I own very few things. One of them is not _Downton Abbey_. **

**Thanks again for all the great reviews! I've had a bad couple of days, post Spring Break stress and work, so your reviews continue to cheer me up. **

Chapter 10

He wanted to go to her. But how could he explain it? He was already at the main house, but he needed to see her.

It had been a long day for everyone at Downton Abbey. The drama of her ladyship's miscarriage and its resonating effects had nearly everyone morose. Dinner was cancelled, everyone kept to their rooms with no work to do, there was little buzz about the house. Silence reigned and there was nothing else to do but mourn the loss of her ladyship's unborn child.

Eventually darkness came and slowly the family upstairs and the people downstairs drifted to bed. Anna and Gwen went up to help the girls undress and tidy their rooms. He thought about sending a note, but then thought better of it. She would call him if she needed him. It seemed wrong to intrude upon her pain.

Branson stayed in the kitchen late, unsure of when or if he might be needed to fetch the doctor. And maybe to see if Sybil might need him as well.

It was hard to concentrate. He tried reading his papers. He tried to break some of the awkward silence in the stoic kitchen. But all he could think of was her. All he wanted to do was go to her. March upstairs and put his arms around her. Tell her that everything was going to be alright. Did she need him? Surely, she must want some comfort. Or was she getting it from her family? Mary and Edith didn't seem like the comforting types (that was typically Sybil's job), although maybe the shock had brought them together.

Time dragged on and he was not needed. _I'll comfort her tomorrow. She'll come to the garage and we'll be alone then. _He knew she wouldn't come to the chauffeur's cottage as he had told her numerous times of the danger. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would be needed.

With those thoughts, he began to gather his things. The kitchen was deserted and Mr. Carson had already given him the key to lock up. It was late, nearly midnight.

Suddenly, Gwen appeared.

"This is for you," she said quickly, handing him a note. She looked around stealthily before she whispered, "Her room's on the third floor, fourth door on the left. Daisy wakes at 4. You need to be gone by then."

And with those words, she was gone. Only one candle burned in the kitchen and Tom quickly tore open the note to read:

_Come to me as soon as you can. Gwen says she'll tell you the location of my room. Please, I need you. _

He didn't know what he expected earlier, but it certainly wasn't an invitation to her room. Improper. It was totally improper for him to go to her room. But he must. He was compelled. She needed him and he would go.

Comfort, that's all she would get from him. No sexual overtures no matter how much the idea of being in her bedroom fired his blood. Comfort. Hugs. Soft kisses. Holding. Nothing more.

He blew out the candle and carefully snuck to the stairs. This was madness. If he was caught upstairs there was no way for him to explain his presence. He was a chauffer, he rarely entered the house. And certainly not in the dead of night.

She had kept her promise not to put them into any more "compromising situations". They had met at the garage over the past few days. A place where they were alone enough to talk, but not alone enough to…engage in scandalous behavior.

He still couldn't believe what she had asked. Or that he had given in to her sweet request. He felt a fresh bolt of desire course through him as he thought about her face as she climaxed. Her lips and nipples had been red from his kisses. And her damp heat had clamped around his finger. Every moment in that backseat was etched into his memory. It was little wonder that he spent his days resisting her and his nights pleasuring himself to those images. His hand barely took the edge off.

He took a deep breath as he continued to climb the stairs. _Control_, he repeated to himself, _control. _Sybil didn't need sexual healing, she needed him to be strong and cuddly.

Tom reached the third floor and tiptoed to the fourth door. He assumed that this was the family wing and that Sybil's sisters slept on the same floor.

Tap, tap, tap, he softly knocked on the door. Moments later, a soft hand grabbed his and he was pulled inside. After quietly shutting the door, she turned to face him.

She wasn't crying, but there were traces of red around her soft blue eyes. She took his hand again and led him to the small settee. His arms engulfed her as she leaned in and laid her head against his chest. They sat like this for a while. His arms around her, his lips softly kissing her forehead.

"Thank you for coming" she said, her words slightly muffled from her place against chest.

"As my lady wishes. You know I can't resist you, even if you invite me here" he said, indicating her bedroom.

"I thought you might not come for that reason. I'm glad you did" she said, a small smile gracing her face.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he said.

"Not really. I'm just sad. I know that things like this happen, I just wish it hadn't."

"Me too, sweetheart."

"Both my parents were pretty upset about it. But I think Papa took it the hardest. He left the room to be alone, but not before I saw him start to cry. It was…unsettling," she said.

"I'm sorry. I wish there was something I could do. Something to make it better," he said.

"You already are. Being here with me. This is what I needed all along. The whole time I was with Edith and Mary, all I kept thinking was 'I need Tom'. Thank you for coming" she said, raising her head from his chest.

"You're welcome, my sweet" he said. He stroked the red smudges near her eyes as if he could erase them. He bent down to brush his lips against hers. The kiss was meant to be brief ,comforting. After a few moments, he lifted his head to pull away.

Only Sybil's lips followed. She pressed her lips upwards and firmly sealed their mouths together. It felt amazing. But soon as he felt the familiar stirrings of desire. His body was reacting to her passionate kiss with something other than comfort. He wanted her on her back. Their bodies pressed together like their lips currently were. Drawing back, he pulled away before this went to far.

But she was determined. Her hands framed his face and brought their lips together again, her tongue sweeping inside his mouth. He moaned and slanted his mouth to get closer. _One more kiss, she just wants one more kiss_, he thought.

But, of course, he should have known better. Sybil was always full of surprises.

And surprise him, she did. She detached her lips from his and Tom thought she was finally (and thankfully) ending their passionate kiss. But instead of pull away from his body, she slid her body over his, her knees straddling his thighs, her pelvis against his.

If he wasn't aroused before, her bold action certainly did the job.

"Sybil, I don't think—" he started, but her finger pressed against his lips, silencing him.

Her lips then slid to his jaw and slowly made their way to his ear. He put his hands on her arms to push her away, but heat of her warm skin through the cotton distracted him. He had noticed that she wore only a nightgown when he entered the room, but at that time it hadn't mattered. It sure as hell mattered now. His hands, however, acted of their own accord and ran over her shoulders and down her back.

"I want to pleasure you" she whispered, her teeth nibbling on his lobe.

Stunned and gasping, he said "You shouldn't….I mean, I can't…I.I..this is a bad idea. You're overwrought."

"I know what I want. And what I want is to bring you pleasure. Don't you want to?" she said. The last part was whispered with the tiniest bit of insecurity. Apparently she wasn't the confident seductress she appeared.

Eager to reassure her, he said," Yes, of course. But you arouse me too much."

"Well then let me take care of you." She didn't wait for a reply. Instead her head dropped to his neck. She pressed fervent kisses to his skin, soft at first, but then with more and more eagerness. Her lips lapped at his pulse point then worshipped his skin with her sweet tongue and questing teeth. While he had shaved earlier that morning by this late hour his skin was surely prickly. She didn't seem to mind. Her tongue against the course hair sent shivers through both of them. The sensations both new and incredibly erotic.

Her fingers shook a little as she unbuttoned his waistcoat. She then began to remove his tie and pull his shirt from his pants. Tom felt his anticipation growing as more layers were undone. He resisted the urge to help, knowing that he would likely divest himself of the layers by ripping. He was eager for her hands on him. Very eager.

Finally she spread his shirt to reveal his undershirt with more buttons. Her mouth eagerly pleasured the new skin her removal revealed as her fingers undid more buttons. By this time he was panting. The swift and soft brushes of her hand was driving him mad.

"Ohhh" she said with pleasure, her eyes were glued to his pale chest. Tom wasn't shy or modest, but the weight of her gaze made him…uncomfortable. It seemed as if those soft blue eyes didn't miss anything.

"You have so many freckles," she said, surprised.

He wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not, "Well, you know, Irish skin and all" he said, squirming. Did she not like them?

As if reading his mind, she replied, "I think they're very…sexy." Her palms pressed fully against his skin. The contact burned. But in a good way. The kind of burn which makes your skin prickle.

He moaned her name as she explored his chest. Her hands swept over every detail-his pecs, his ribs, his stomach, and then up to his collarbones and shoulders. Her thumbs pressed against his small peaked nipples and he nearly bucked her off his lap. The softness of her hands felt so good. Her exploration was driving him senseless.

His own hands balanced firmly on her waist, afraid that if his hands began to explore her, they wouldn't be able to stop. She squirmed in his lap though (he had to resist the urge to press her hips harder against his) clearly aroused by her own actions.

Her tongue passed over his right nipple at the same moment her hands dipped lower into his trousers. "Sybil" he managed between clenched teeth, "please, I can't stand much more of this."

She slid to the side of him, her hands already on the buttons of his trousers, "Well, since you said please…"

More buttons undone on his drawers and out came his John Thomas, primed for her touch.

"Oh my" she whispered, her eyes large at the sight before her.

"Touch me," he begged. Unable to take another moment, his hand grabbed hers and wrapped it around his length.

"Oh God" he moaned, his head rolled back against the settee. Her hand squeezed him, fascinated by the texture and shape. Then her hand began to move, sliding and encasing his aroused flesh from the root to tip.

"The book I read said to stroke, like up and down. Am I doing this right?" she said.

"Yes. Yes. Oh God, please don't stop" he said. Her sweet hand continued to milk him-just a little harder and faster. He had lost the ability to speak; the only sounds he could make were moans.

He felt pleasure gather at the base of his spine. Everything was happening so quickly but he knew he couldn't stop it. He was going to come and soon.

He started to pump his hips upwards into her hand. The additional friction made him gasp. His whole body went rigid with a rush of heat and pleasure and then suddenly, he was flying over the edge. "Sybil, oh my God, Sybil" he said as his hot seed gushed into her hand.

Euphoria spread through his entire body. It had never felt like that before. He had gone much further with other women, but with a few pulls from Sybil's hand he had experienced the most intense climax of his life. And he wanted to do it again. And again.

His eyes peeked open, only to see a smug and proud smile on her face. Grabbing his handkerchief from his pocket, he removed her hand from his dwindling member and began to clean them both.

He didn't know what to say. For once in his life, his glib Irish tongue was silent. Rather he knew what he should say. Only one phrase was pounding through his mind "I love you". _Say it, say it now_ his mind beseeched. _It would make everything right._

But he resisted it. Not here. Not now. He couldn't say it. He just couldn't. They were still in the same position. They were still illicit lovers in a room he shouldn't have entered. It wasn't right.

Instead he said, "I'm sorry. I hope the…ending didn't frighten you too much."

"Not at all. I knew what to expect. Besides, I thought it was rather erotic. Did you like it? Did I do alright?"

"Of course. Any better and I would've died a real death, not a little one" he said. "In all seriousness, I've never felt anything like that. Never."

A smile spread across her face. It was the first real smile he had seen this evening and he knew he would do anything to make her look like that again. Make her look like that always. Almost anything.

"I love you," she said, as if reading his thoughts.

"I know, lass. Thank you. Not just for tonight, but for your love. I don't deserve it."

"You do deserve it, my love. More than you know," she said, sweetly. "Would you hold me for a while? Just until I fall asleep?"

"For a little while" he said, taking her hand and leading her to the bed.

Removing his boots, he settled on the bed beside her. His body pressed up against her back, his hand wrapped around her tiny waist. Their bodies fit together like pieces of a puzzle. Just right. As if they were made for each other alone.

"Goodnight, sweet Sybil" he murmured into her fragrant hair. He wanted to stay like this forever. He wished that he could.

"Goodnight, my love" she said through a yawn.

Her deep breathing and slight snore are indications that that she is far from awake. He doesn't want to leave, but he knows that he must. He has to get the doctor tomorrow at 9.

Untangling himself from her warm body, he donned his boots, coat, and hat.

Wrapping the covers around her body more securely, he placed a soft kiss on her forehead. She murmured but didn't wake up.

"I love you" he whispered, so soft it was barely audible to his own ears.

She didn't hear it, but it was finally said.

FINIS

**Please review! Your feedback makes me smile. **


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I do not own _Downton Abbey_ or any of its characters.

_I have a confession to make; I actually missed the hand holding incident during Episode 7. It wasn't until I saw a fan video on YouTube that I realized what exactly I had missed (and of course watched over and over again). I was shocked-it was so unlike me to miss a small detail like that. _

_Also on the handholding, I feel like there must've been a catalyst for this event. Certainly, I doubt Sybil and Branson get as freaky as they do in my story, but I think something beyond what we viewers see had come to pass before the Garden Party. Tom doesn't seem like the type to just willy nilly hold hands with his employer's daughter. Give her pamphlets? Sure. Tell her his radical ideas? Absolutely. But hold her hand and take that kind of risk? It seems like there is a huge chance for rejection here, not to mention it could not have happened in front of a worse person (maybe Mr. Carson or Lord Granthem). Basically, I don't think that the incident was just a case of overwhelmed emotions or an innocent gesture that just "happened". Laced hands are intimate hands, people. _

_I also don't think Julian Fellowes tells us everything. And thank goodness he doesn't. I also don't like Mary (sorry). What say you about this conundrum? Did he just grab her hand on impulse or is there some history between these two?_

Chapter 11

It was at times like this she wished he were a footman. Well, if she were to wish anything it was that they were of the same rank. Maybe that she was a maid or he a lord. The garden party was in full swing-tasty tidbits on trays, champagne in glasses, idyllic weather-and she resented every minute, every detail of it. They were separated and that was enough to spoil it all.

And here she was, standing in the middle of the yard, making idle chitchat with fops and stogy lords. When she would much rather be in an oily garage, talking politics with her charming Irishman.

She could barely stop thinking about that night in her room. Tom had been so sweet, so…perfect-saying something, saying nothing at the right moment. And the pleasure she was finally able to give him. It was unimaginable. It was empowering. She knew that he desired her, but to see the blatant proof, to know her touch brought him to such heights. It was incredibly arousing. And his body was so…sensual. All hard lines and warm skin, with a smattering of freckles. Those had been a surprise, but a very pleasant one. She couldn't stop picturing his body rigid with release, his eyes closed, his face contorted with pleasure.

And she wanted to see it all again. Only trying more of the things she had found in that book, something with her mouth in place of her hand…

"Sybil," Edith interrupted, her voice like a bucket of cold water, cooling her salacious thoughts, "tell Sarah about your accident in Ripon. Can you believe it? She was crusading for women's rights and got a bump on her head."

Trying not to rise to the bait, she replied demurely, "Oh, it was nothing. Just a small scratch." She was itching to say more, to talk about how important women's rights were, how Branson saved her, but instead she picked at her sleeve. Edith just wanted an excuse to rile her. And she was dangerously close.

Suddenly her body felt on edge, teeming with energy. She could sense that he was close by. She couldn't look up, knew that her attention would draw the keen eyes of Edith. But she could feel him. He was likely delivering some message to Mr. Carson.

But he wasn't. The message was for her. He softly tapped her shoulder. It wasn't the most erotic of touches but she felt it through the layers of her dress. Was it hot outside? Because it had just gotten hotter.

His sun drenched hair glimmered as their eyes met. She couldn't mask her reaction: surprise, love, curiosity. So often they had to hide their expressions, hide the evidence of their feelings apparent in their faces. There were prying servants, vindictive sisters, and disapproving parents always underfoot. Yet his face appeared before her with the same openness, the same tenderness that they shared only when alone.

Things had changed in the car. But everything progressed since. The stolen moments in the garage, the night in her room. He always had the most expressive eyes, full of emotions. They were full of fear, of skepticism, of longing, but of late they were brimming with love. She read sonnets in his eyes. Dreams, plans…hope.

And here at the garden party he wasn't hiding behind a mask of servile indifference. He was glowing with love.

It was a sign of good news or so she hoped.

"Milady, I have news" he said to her and everyone in the circle as a way of preamble. She knew he couldn't call her Sybil in front of everyone, but it was still annoying.

His mouth moved closer and for a full second she thought (and wished) he might kiss her. But he was only moving closer to whisper the news. His hand hovered over her back, as if making to touch her, but uncertain what to do. The feel of his indecisive hand was warm, very warm. She longed to move back and into the promise of his arm.

"Gwen got the job" he said, excitement brimming in his voice.

She let out a sound half gasp, half squeak. It was obvious what they had to do, they needed to find Gwen. Running through the small circle and away from the tent, she felt free, liberated. She almost hoped that Tom would grab her hand as they ran. Nothing would be more welcome. They didn't speak as they ran toward Gwen (it wasn't hard to spot the flame of her red hair), but he was there and they were here together. And they were delivering good news.

"Mr. Bromwich has rung. You did it, Gwen, you got the job!" she burst out.

Gwen squealed like an excited schoolgirl after her first kiss. "Here, take it, take it!" she said to a passing maid.

The three of them enveloped into a group hug. While Sybil was ecstatic for her friend and loved this moment, she couldn't ignore the feel of Tom's face that close. His jaw rubbed against her, his afternoon stubble softly pressed to her cheek.

"Something to celebrate?" said Mrs. Hughes, her stern voice broke through the excited noise of the three.

They separated as Gwen explained to Mrs. Hughes the good news.

But Sybil didn't hear a word. Tom and her hands had knocked together as they broke apart. She moved closer so that their arms were flush and their hands brushed. But she didn't expect anything to happen. Merely to enjoy the close proximity to someone she needed to be close to.

It was unexpected. And perfect. And so terribly outspoken (if a sweet action could be viewed that way). Here they were, in front of Mrs. Hughes, blatantly holding hands. It was one thing for Gwen or Anna or other people to know about them. It was quite another for Mrs. Hughes to know.

But more importantly, it was also a sign of something bigger. They weren't hiding anymore. He took her hand in front of a person who could fire him. And he wasn't embarrassed or worried.

Gwen and Mrs. Hughes broke off conversation. He turned to her, to stare into her eyes and at the beautiful intricacy of their hands. They were laced together, their palms flush, their fingers on the back of each other's hands.

It was a rare that they held hands. Something so often denied by the secrecy of their relationship. Above all the things they had done with their bodies, there was an intimacy yet to be discovered in the press of their entwined hands.

"I don't suppose- " he began before he was interrupted. She had never wanted to hear the end of a sentence more in her entire life. He didn't suppose what? That she would want to sneak away? That she wanted a drink? That she wanted to run away with him? Forever? She wanted to reply yes, whatever it was yes. She would do it. Anything to spend more time with him. Anything to keep their hands together.

But of course Mrs. Hughes had to interrupt the promise of a good sentence,"Lady Sybil, her ladyship was asking for you."

It was a lie. A good one, one she couldn't object to. So she merely pursed her lips, both pouty and disapproving at the same time. With one last lingering glance at him, she walked away.

As Sybil walked away, Mrs. Hughes mumbled something to him. She couldn't hear everything, but it was something about "no job", "broken heart".

How very wrong she was.

FINIS

_Not quite as salacious as before, but just wait for the next and final chapter of this fic. Please review! I love love love feedback._


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I do not own _Downton Abbey_ or any of its characters. Julian Fellowes would likely be very scandalized by my ideas for the show.

So I decided to break this last chapter up to make this fic a baker's dozen. One more chapter then I'll have to move onto something else. I have a couple of small ideas, but nothing concrete yet.

Thanks to everyone for the great feedback! You continue to make me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Chapter 12

This time he knew she would come. He was merely waiting for her to make an appearance at his cottage. And he was ready.

Lord Granthem's announcement should not have been a surprise. Tensions between England and Germany had run exceptionally high the last couple of years and definitely these past few weeks.

But a war? It was shocking. Frightening. Terrible. Nothing could have prepared them for that.

At the moment of his lordship's announcement, Tom had been making his way back to the kitchen, out of sight of the party. But when the music stopped, the conversation halted, he knew that something was happening. Something important.

He regretted that he wasn't at her side. He noticed that Mary was there. He desperately wanted to comfort her and for her to comfort him. Their country was now at war and nothing was certain anymore. Would he fight? What role would he have in this war? How would the war affect his life? His position at Downton Abbey? Would he go back to Ireland? There were too many questions and not enough answers.

He had spent the afternoon thinking, contemplating, arguing with himself over the answers. And he could come up with was one answer.

Sybil, she was the answer, the solution to everything. He couldn't deny it any more. He didn't want to deny it any more. He loved her, needed her, wanted to be with her always. If the declaration of war did nothing else, it showed him the error of his own stupid behavior. How could he have denied her the words she needed? She had gave and gave and gave, with nothing but "thank you"s and "I know"s in return.

A knock on the door signaled her arrival and he opened the door to see her in much the same state as her first night here-worried, disheveled, and utterly beautiful.

"I came as soon as I could get away. Can you believe it? A war? Standing there it was like being in a nightmare. One from which you desperately hope to wake" she said, her arms thrown around his neck, her face buried in his shirt.

"I know. And I don't like it one bit," he replied. Her touch, her body snug against his was like a balm to his soul. There was so much uncertainty, the promise of so much destruction. But here, now, everything was all right, they were together.

Drawing her further into the cottage, he placed on the same chair as before. He had been tempted to acquire another one since her first visit, but knew that it might cause too much curiosity among the servants. Why would he need another chair if not for visitors? And some might guess the identity of the visitor.

So he knelt beside the chair, their hands still joined. He tried to stop the tremble of his hands as he began to speak, "Sybil, I've been a fool."

"How? Oh tell me you didn't sign up already. Seriously, I won't let you go. You can't. You mustn't. I'll grab your leg and bodily prevent you—"

He would have laughed if he weren't so nervous, "No, nothing like that. We've only been at war for the afternoon; I could not have signed up already. Besides, I don't know what I'll do anyways. But that's not the point."

"Well, what is it? What have you been foolish about? You aren't breaking this off—"

"I love you," he said, his tender voice cutting her off, "and I've been a fool not to say it until now. I love everything about you. Your convictions. Your voice. Your hair. I love the bold way you speak. I love your salacious thoughts. I love you for all of the things you are and all of the things you are not. I can't believe I kept this in for so long. I knew long ago that I loved you, but I had this misplaced idea that if I said it, it would give you the power. At first I thought you were merely toying with me, most young ladies don't fall in love with chauffeurs. I thought that I had to keep something back to make you want to be with me. I wanted so badly to stay away, to protect myself, but it was impossible. As your love grew, blossomed, so too did mine. You are genuine, loyal, and not fickle at all. By denying you my love, it only made you try harder to show me your love. Not saying it, it was like a festering wound. There was no pleasure, only pain for us both. I need you to know, I want you to know how much I love you. And I'll say it as many times as possible to make you believe me. Please forgive me for being an idiot. I love you more than my own life."

Her eyes were wide, teary and her mouth was slightly agape, but no words came out. It appeared that Sybil was finally speechless.

Finally after a long pause, she whispered, "You love me?"

"More than anything. I love you." Then he cupped her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers. It was magical. It was like their first kiss. Pure. Passionate. And completely irresistible. His tongue swept inside her mouth as their lips mated.

Before he could be pulled down the dark tunnel of desire and love, he pulled away to whisper, "Wait, there's something else."

Taking a deep breath, he reached in his side pocket and removed a small gold band. It wasn't shiny or large or adorned with jewels, but it made Sybil gasp.

"This was my ma's. After my da died she gave it to me, told me to give it to someone I loved in the future. Someone who challenged me. Someone who would support me in all my big dreams. Someone who made me feel special, loved. And someone whom I could all of the same things for. And well, that's you. With all that's going on around us, there's only one thing that's certain and that's our love. I don't want to waste another minute thinking or dreaming about a future between us. I want to make it happen. I know it's unfair of me to ask. I'm only a chauffer; I have nothing to offer you, no money, and no title. Not even a proper ring that I bought myself. But I love you and I will always love you. I promise to support you, to listen to you, to love you, to be all that you need. And I will work hard for you, for us, to make both of our dreams come true. We don't have to get married right away. But I want to spend my life with you. Will you marry me?"

Again, she was struck speechless. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she took the delicate band and placed it on her hand. "Yes, yes, yes. I will marry you".

His face broke into a large smile and his eyes were a bit watery but he had to ask. He needed to make sure she knew what she was getting into. "Are you sure? Our marriage won't be easy. And we won't have any of the things you're used to. Hell, your family will likely disown you. You could be seen as an embarrassment, our children unacknowledged. Are you ready for all of that? Are you sure that you can handle those things?"

"I want to marry you. I know what a life with you will mean. Hard work for us both, but I'm tired of being a lady. Tired of days spent in endless boredom doing nothing. That life might be easier in some ways, but it has its hardships. Idleness when I want activity. Prestige and position when I want only you. Whatever happens with the war and my family, I will marry you. "

Her lips crashed into his, sealing her promise, sealing their engagement.

FINIS

Please review! Your feedback makes my day.


	13. Chapter 13

_As I writer, I have a lot of difficulty speculating past the declaration of war at the end Episode 7. Oh, I enjoy reading the other people's fictions post declaration, but there seems to be something taboo for me as a writer in the subject matter. Maybe I don't know Tom or Sybil well enough to judge what they'll do. Maybe I don't want to speculate only to have Julian Fellowes dash my hopes. But here, my dear friends, is where our story ends. I'm not sure what Tom or Sybil will do during the war, but I hope that they'll be together_.

_Thank you for reading this fiction. I have loved every one of your reviews and hope that you'll oblige me on this last chapter._

Chapter 13

He loved her. They were engaged. And nothing else mattered.

Her frazzled senses were bombarded with a borage of sensations and emotions. Joy, excitement, fear, but right now, she felt intense love. And strangely, at peace. It was as if all the tension of the day was gone. All the outside factors-her family, the war, society-were gone. It was just the two of them. Two people in love. Two people sharing and reveling in the commitment of one another.

She meant what she said. She would marry him.

They were kissing passionately, her lips sought his, her tongue dueled for dominance. Every sensation was heightened; every brush of his mouth was divine. His hands on her shoulder imprinted themselves on her very soul. She thought that the physicality of their relationship burned hot. Honestly she had no idea it could reach this raging heat. Love fueled the fire to an inferno. And she didn't want to stop. Ever.

Her hands entwined in his hair, lowering herself to kneel across from him on the floor. Their bodies pressed against each other as each kiss became more intense, more sensual. She moaned. He groaned. The sensation of their bodies, so few layers between them, overwhelming.

But of course he pulled away just as things were getting good. Panting, he whispered, "I want you too much. We have to stop."

She could tell he was serious about this, despite the rather obvious evidence of his desire. Had she never noticed before the erotic flush his cheeks took on when he was aroused? It was most endearing. And she planned to keep that flush in place.

"No. No more stopping."

"We should wait until we're married. Wait until it's official" he implored.

"Official? You're still unsure of me, aren't you? You still think I'll change my mind?"

"Yes… no… I don't know. Let's just say I don't want to do anything that can't be undone," he said.

"Well, I don't wish to be 'undone' anymore. Our love is real. Our engagement is real," she said, indicating the gold band on her finger, " We make it official. If you love me then show me. Because I desperately want to show you."

And with that she stood up and moved toward the bed. Gathering her courage, she grabbed the hem of her nightgown and pulled it over her head. She quickly removed her drawers and flopped naked onto the bed with as much finesse as she could manage.

She looked up only to see Tom's eyes bugging out of his head.

"Are you trying to seduce me?" he replied warily.

"Perhaps. You continue to resist my very forward and persistent advances. I think it necessary for drastic measures. And if you won't make love to me, seduction it is." She tried to sound confident, assured, but it was rather difficult when one was naked.

He wanted her. Of that much she was sure. The way he was looking at her… it made her toes curl. It was as if she was the feast and he was a starving man. But would he do anything about it?

While his eyes devoured her, the rest of his body remained entirely rigid. She thought he might reject her advances, but suddenly all the tension drained from him, "I am chivalrous no longer. I can't resist you. I never could," he said, moving to the bed.

He quickly divested himself of most of his clothing. His boots, his shirt, his pants were gone in an instant. The only barrier between their naked bodies was his drawers which hid little.

He slowly lowered his body onto the bed next to hers. They both gasped as their unobstructed bodies finally pressed together. Skin to skin. Man to woman. Flesh to flesh.

Her breasts pressed against his hard chest, her nipples contracting with arousal. Their hands and eyes trailed over each other, exploring the newfound territory. She ran her hand from his shoulder to the side of his thigh. His hands tangled in her hair as his mouth tortured the sensitive skin of her neck. "You are so beautiful," he whispered against her skin.

"So are you," she replied. She was in awe of his masculine beauty. So much hardness and strength. She loved the freckles even more; they were everywhere- his arms, his chest, his thighs. They gave him a boyish look when the rest of his body was anything but. They were adorable and absolutely salacious.

He rolled them over so that she was on her back with the full length of his body on top of her. They had done this one before in the car, but that was nowhere near as satisfying. This definitely was. Her legs and hips cradled his body as he pressed himself further into her. It was a perfect fit.

His mouth feasted on her breasts as his hands brought her hips closer to his. She arched her back, her senses overwhelmed by the warm suction of his mouth and his hardness brushing against her core.

She circled her hips, wanting more friction against her sensitive skin. Friction that the damned fabric of his drawers prevented. Her hands stroked his naked back, sliding down and under his drawers. She tugged, pushed, and finally moaned as the warmth of his hardness met her damp center. He stopped his sensual torture to gasp at the contact. It seemed that she wasn't the only one who needed more. His hips slowly bracketed hers, his hardness sliding against her slick opening. He didn't penetrate, but her body sensed his closeness. Needed to be closer.

"Now," was all she could say. Her body was on fire with desire. The gentle nudge of his hardness against her set off a thousand explosions through her body. She wanted to experience that high, that peak of ecstasy. But she wanted to experience it with him.

"Are you sure?" he managed through gritted teeth.

"Yes, now" she breathed. Slowly he eased into her, giving her body time to accommodate. Eventually he came to the barrier of her innocence. With no preamble he thrust, fully embedding himself.

She didn't gasp or cry out. It was uncomfortable but nothing terribly painful. Nothing like what her mother had described (pain, blood, a duty).

But all she felt was love, fullness. She didn't expect it to feel so…nice. So complete. It was like her body was made for his. Tom had stopped once he was deep inside her, giving her time to feel comfortable. He was gazing at her, gauging her reaction.

She realized that she hadn't said anything, hadn't assured him that she was alright and to continue. But seeing his eyes, seeing the tenderness, the concern made her whisper, "I love you."

He smiled and replied, "I love you too. Are you alright? Is it too much pain? I'll stop…"

"Don't you dare!" she said, her legs wrapped his waist, "Let's continue.." She rolled her hips beneath his and he began to thrust.

It was peculiar at first. Then it was interesting. Then it was downright arousing. Their bodies seemed to find a rhythm. She pushed, he pulled. He pushed, she pulled. And every time his body thrust deep inside, he rubbed against the most sensitive part of her. She arched her back to get closer, to get more. They were both panting, moaning. She was senseless, she kept whispering his name, orders, pleas, phrases of love. Nothing made sense and yet everything did. She was getting closer and closer to that peak and Tom was coming with her.

Then everything contracted, every press of his hips became more intense. More necessary. It was right there. He thrust deep and circled his hips against her. Hard.

"Tom…Oh…Oh..Oh Tom!" she said, her orgasm ripping through her body. She heard him shout her name as well. Felt his body go rigid, heard his deep groan of satisfaction. Their shared cries of release only fueled each other's high. It was better than before. More…everything. She felt connected to Tom in a way that was beyond sexual. It was spiritual. Powerful. Primitive. Life altering.

As their bodies came down from the bliss, she felt his arms tighten around her. His face was buried in her shoulder, his harsh breath fanning her flushed skin. Her hands stroked his back. She could feel his heartbeat against her chest. They stayed like that for a while, silent save for the after effects of their lovemaking.

He was the first to speak, propping himself up on his elbows, looking in her eyes, he said, "That was…amazing. I never knew anything could be so…perfect."

Pleased, she smiled back, "I did."

He drew himself out of her and slid to the side, snuggling her head into the curve of his shoulder.

"So what next, my love? Do we tell your family tomorrow? Do I just march up in the middle of breakfast and say something like 'Your lordship, your ladyship, I wish to marry Lady Sybil. She's said yes, so there's nothing you can do about it' Do you think that might work?" he teased.

"No, I don't think that would work," she laughed at his comment. She could already picture the look on her parents' faces, not to mention the comical one on her Gran's. And she had thought the pants were radical…

Suddenly serious though, she said, "I think we should elope."

"Elope?" he said, surprised.

"Just hear me out. I'm not ashamed of you, of us. I want to marry you. But I'm afraid that if we asked, if we made our love known, that they would separate us. Fire you and send me to London to live with Aunt Rosamond. It wouldn't keep me from you, but it would impede our marriage. Delay it and I don't want that. There's war, there's uncertainty, and I don't want to wait for us to be married. As for my parents, I think in this situation it's better to ask forgiveness than permission. And if they don't accept us then we'll leave. As long as I'm with you I don't care where I am," she said this all rather quickly, afraid of his outrage, afraid of his answer.

But it wasn't necessary. He smiled and said, "A clandestine wedding? Why what other type of wedding would one expect of an Irish revolutionary and a Suffragette? Or from a chauffer and a lady? To Gretna Green it is."

"To Gretna Green" she said.

The name of the small Scottish town was said with reverence. As their voices whispered the name, it had the same promise to it as a vow. Gretna Green was the end and the beginning of everything.

The End

_I hope that you enjoyed reading this fiction as much as I enjoyed writing it. I do have a sequel/one-shot conclusion to this story. _

_(you might guess the setting and yes, some of it has already been written)_

_Please review! I'd love to hear what you think about the story overall. _

_mswainwright-Tom's chivalrous comment was for you. _


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